


Heir of Dust and Ruin

by Murreleteer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Espionage, Heavy Angst, Hugs, Loyalty, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Pre-Series, Secret Past, Team Bonding, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murreleteer/pseuds/Murreleteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having spent his life concealing his true nature as an omega, Athos thinks that joining the King's Musketeers will be no different. Even though he is newly stricken by the calamity with his wife. Even though the company is dominated by alphas. However, as years pass, and the bonds of comradeship grow stronger, his secret becomes both more difficult and more dangerous to keep. Faced with a critical mission, he must decide who he can truly trust, and if that includes himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Normandy. 1608.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the kink meme [here.](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=88326#cmt88326)
> 
> Prompt (which kind of got away on me): _Athos is an omega, but has been hiding all his life to escape the stereotype, discrimination, nasty alphas etc. Nobody knows about this. He's on suppressants, and he has never been a submissive person - although he has to suppress his biological instincts through force of will - but he's afraid that his (alpha) friends will find out and think differently of him. Then they do._
> 
>  **This story contains:** suicidal ideation and consideration of suicide, military-style hazing, alcohol abuse, fucked up gender norms and attitudes towards sex, a toxic relationship with Catholicism, canon-level violence (some of it with a sexual element, though not really sexual assault), profanity, bad first aid, and a fairly liberal interpretation of history (and possibly canon).
> 
> Though consent is negotiated, some of the kink is not, and I would overall label this story as dubcon. Kinks include bondage, D/s, and serious disassociation and subspace.
> 
> There are also references to/discussion of: rape, a variety of consent issues, graphic violence, torture, and canonical past miscarriages.
> 
> Also, it's not as dire as the above makes it sound? Mostly it's really, really angsty.

"Since the Transmutation of Mankind, these three hundred years ago," his father had declaimed, "No heir to this Comté has been an omega." And his son had believed him.

Until, that was, his time for the black sleep came, as it did to all boys as they began to turn into men. When he woke, when his skin had again turned pale, he found himself something else. Something of which his father would never approve.

His mother knelt at his side. His steady beta mother had clearly been sitting up with him for days, waiting for the tremors and the fever to pass. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders, but she still held onto his hand with a grip of steel.

She smelled different. The whole world smelled different, but his mother in particular. He couldn't describe the feeling in words. He simply knew that she was his superior, and he would do what she said, and that somehow that was a matter of scent.

"Mama?"

She squeezed his hand even harder. "Hush, my darling," she whispered. "We don't have much time. You must drink this and say nothing until I can to explain."

He did as she told him, silently draining the bitter cup to its lees. It made his head spin, and when he woke again, his father stood over his bed.

"I'm sorry, My Lord," his mother was saying – she'd powdered her face and pined her hair into a simple chignon. "I know you wanted your first born to wake an alpha."

"No matter. A beta will do," his father said. He patted his son's shoulder before turning away.

"Mama," he said when the door closed behind his father. "Doesn't he know?"

"No," his mother snapped. She folded her hands to hide the shaking. "He does not know. He must never know. If you want to live for something other than keeping accounts and bearing sons, you will drink this bloodroot every day until Our Merciful Lord takes you."

It was then that Athos de la Fère learned that some heirs to the Comté did indeed became omegas, and that some fathers never found out.


	2. Paris. 1625

The reek of alphas that wafted out of the Musketeers' garrison knocked Athos back a step. He blinked, eyes watering at the intensity of the feeling, and took three steady breaths before continuing. He widened his stance to hide the quake in his knees, then pushed back his shoulders, lifted his chin and _swaggered_ into the courtyard. A youth spent in the army had taught him that swagger could cover any number of eccentricities, as could a keen blade and sturdy wrist, and, more practicably, as had hours a day dedicated to laying new reflexes over the old. The army, however, with its beta majority and seasoning of alphas, hadn't felt half as overpowering as this yard.

For all the sensory assault, Athos found only a handful of men inside: a few sparing along the opposite wall, two more lounging at a central table. He nodded to the nearest of these, a dark-skinned giant with a bandage over his left eye, and said, "Good day, Monsieur. I'm looking for Captain Treville," in a rock-steady voice.

The man jerked his head toward the stairs, and turned back to his companion, who also wore bandages about the head. Happy to be ignored, Athos followed the stairway to the Captain's office and knocked

The inside of the room felt worse than even the yard. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and a shiver trailed down his spine, like he was alone in the night, set on entering the cave of a bear. This place belonged to someone else, someone dangerous and unwelcoming. 

Following that, Captain Treville himself looked disconcertingly ordinary. He appeared ten or fifteen years older than Athos, and of a solid, scarred military stock, bent over his desk reading the letter Athos had sent the week before. Athos' letters of recommendation lay on the desk in front of him.

Athos stood by the door, hat in hand, waiting to be spoken to, and violently repressing the urge to kneel. When the Captain eventually put down the letter, and raked Athos over with piercing blue eyes, Athos had to bite his lip to keep from collapsing.

"So," the Captain said, "Monsieur le Comte arrives early."

"Yes, sir," Athos replied, falling into the old habits of soldiery. He could feel the Captain trying to press him down, alpha testing if he could put the beta in his place, or chase him off entirely. A man who would fold to his knees under his captain's eyes had no place on a battlefield. But Athos had been on that battlefield, and worse. He kept his eyes fixed on the window frame behind the Captain's desk and did not falter.

The Captain nodded to himself and turned back to his desk and glanced over the letters. "Well, don't make a habit of it, de la Fère. You'd be unique in the company." Lifting his head, he bellowed, "Porthos! Aramis!"

Athos started. He could hear the thud of boots on stairs, and realised he didn't have much time. "Sir, I would prefer to leave my title and family behind. 'Athos' is sufficient to my needs."

"Is it!" the Captain snapped, more opinion than question. The two men from the table trooped into the room, flanking Athos. "Are you bound?" he asked, ignoring his musketeers.

"Legally, or matrimonially?" Athos asked, and the dark musketeer snorted, but fell silent at the Captain's expression.

"Either."

Athos shifted back on his heels, fingers curling around the brim of his hat. "No, sir. I am neither wanted by the law, nor beholden to any alpha." That he had bound himself in both, first loving and then murdering his Anne, would make no difference to his service to the King. He'd acted within his legal rights as a nobleman, and as a Christian he faced damnation regardless. The Captain could hardly care either way; Athos would allow none of it to stand against his duty. It would be as though those blissful years of peace had been wiped away.

The Captain seemed to accept his answer, but commented in an idle tone, with an edge that could cut steel, "Not many men of your kind apply to me."

Athos drew a deep breath before replying. He wondered if any of his true kind had dared. "I would imagine, Captain Treville, that not many men of any kind have my references."

He could feel the flanking musketeers exchange looks over his head, and the Captain's lips pressed into a near smile. He squared the papers in font of him, then rose to his feet. "Very well. I will grant you probationary status. Porthos, Aramis, this is Athos. Take him out to the yard and run him through his paces. If, in two days, he remains unbroken and unbound, well, we'll see."

The dark musketeer, Porthos apparently, chuckled and clapped his arm around Athos' shoulders. "Oh, we're going to have fun with this," he said.

Athos felt his heart sink, but his expression did not change. He told himself again that he would not falter.

* * *

Athos circled left, avoiding the obvious approach to Porthos' blind side, which Aramis covered. He fainted, but failed to draw the his opponents out for more than a touch of steel. Porthos grinned at him, all ease and confidence. He could afford to draw things out, having a partner to step in should he flag. Neither of them looked their best, but they didn't have to be, not two alphas against a beta.

The ground was hard packed under their boots, and no wind cut the heat of the afternoon sun. This late in spring, it still rode high, a little west of south, and Athos edged towards it. His opponents stayed a fixed point in the centre, letting him ride their circumference, easily batting back his forays. Athos had the sun at his back now, but Porthos wore his hat low, and dipped his head to keep his eyes shaded. He deflected Athos' latest thrust with the ease of the rest, and cracked the pommel of his dagger across Athos' knuckles when he did.

Aramis peeled off, sliding towards Athos' right side, and Athos felt the jaws close. For the tenth time since he'd entered the yard, he suppressed the urge to kneel, and instead fell back on training and intuition. He twisted backwards into Aramis' sword, snaring it with his dagger, and swiped high at Porthos' blind side. The tip of his blade caught the brim of Porthos' hat, sending it flying, even as the momentum carried him back toward Aramis' dagger. He dropped, still turning and rolled until he came to his feet near the table.

The other Musketeers had broken from their training and now settled on the benches to watch. Several catcalled Porthos and Aramis, who bowed slightly. Porthos laughed, telling Athos, "You're trouble," in an indulgent way that made Athos want to knock more than his hat off. He had to remind himself that that was the point, and that letting any feeling into a fight was the same as falling in submission before it started.

He made to rush forward, as though the words had goaded him, but banked at the last second, aiming for Aramis instead. The heartbeat it took for Aramis to cover himself instead of Porthos, and for Porthos to shift to Aramis' defence was enough for Athos to slip in and tip Aramis' hat off as well.

He also over-committed himself. He tried to twist away again, but Porthos threw a roundhouse that caught him across the jaw and threw him several paces backwards. His shoulders hit the dirt hard. Athos tried to breath, or to roll away, but his lungs seemed to have frozen.

A shadow fell over him, and the tip of Porthos' sword touched his throat. "Yield."

Athos narrowed his eyes and stared up at Porthos. He'd never liked losing, not even friendly bouts. _Yield_ always sounded too close to _Submit_.

"Idiot," Porthos muttered, and flicked the point of his sword across Athos' cheek, touching so lightly that Athos didn't know he'd been cut until the pain came moments later. He turned away to join Aramis.

"But can he shoot?" Aramis asked, and Athos pushed himself to his feet.

* * *

Athos could shoot. He could also handle a horse, panicked or otherwise, wrestle, fight with a dagger and a quarterstaff, and stand watch at midday without losing attention or fainting from the heat. He realised on this watch that he'd been taking too short a view of Porthos and Aramis trading off to tire him. They weren't just doing it in any single encounter, but across hours and days. Porthos would lounge in the shade drinking wine while Aramis made a mockery of his marksmanship. Aramis would share apples and cheese with the other musketeers while Porthos flattened Athos with a quarterstaff. They both pressed him with swords, where he was strongest, and both played cards as he stood at attention at the gate.

It had become quite clear that the Captain would not have ordered these trials for an alpha. Like the harsh stare in the his office, the constant pressure from two alphas was an attempt to make Athos submit. The Captain had told his men to see if they could break his beta recruit, and they were doing their best to obey. The deference of beta to alpha wasn't as strong as that of omega to alpha, but Athos had seen betas fold to their knees when stressed, injured or exhausted.

Now, all three and already on his hands and knees, with Porthos' hand clamped across the back of his neck, pressing his face into the dirt, Athos wanted nothing more than to let go. His instincts told him that if he would just go limp, or push his ass up a little, or roll over and let his legs fall open, then the alpha would take care of everything. He wouldn't have to worry anymore. He could just lie still and let himself get fucked, and never concern himself with swords or honour or protecting himself again.

"Yield," Porthos whispered in his ear, voice sweet and seductive as fresh honey.

Athos could feel his whole body trembling, both with fatigue and the desire to follow that command. In his head, he knew that his instincts were mountebanks: if he gave in, this alpha would not protect him. He'd take his submission not as a gift but as the failure it was. Treville would have more substantiation for belief in alpha superiority, and Athos would be thrown out of the company. That last might be after Porthos fucked him where he lay, though he couldn't quite believe such things happened in the King's Musketeers as they occasionally had in the army. Not to a beta, at least.

Porthos' hand squeezed down, his chest resting against Athos' back, his hips brushing Athos' ass. He grunted and snapped, "Come on, you stubborn sonofabitch. I said, ' _yield_.'"

A whimper, a sound a wounded animal might make, built in Athos' throat. He felt himself slumping, body going lax under Porthos' touch. He heard that same indulgent chuckle in his ear, and Aramis catcalling from across the yard, and his hearing seemed to go blank. He felt as though he'd stuffed beeswax into his ears.

He snapped his head back, catching Porthos in the teeth, then fell flat and squirmed forward and out from under him as he reeled. Dagger in hand, Athos came up in a crouch. It wasn't a whine that escaped his bared teeth now, but a growl of challenge.

Porthos wiped his hand across his mouth and spat blood in the dirt. He grinned, teeth smeared ghastly red, and twisted his moustache back into a point. "Blades again, is it?" he asked, and advanced dagger in hand.

Panic crept in. Athos wouldn't win this fight. He didn't have the strength, or Porthos' skill in a knife fight. He'd meant to give his life to the king's service, not die in the dust of some training yard. He backed away, trying to get the entrance to the street behind him.

"That will do!" As the Captain's order rang out over the courtyard, Porthos' whole body shifted, straightening and relaxing at the same time. He sheathed the dagger and pulled himself to attention in the same fluid move. Behind him, Aramis was also on his feet, hat tucked under his arm, looking fresh as the dawn.

Athos found himself slower to follow. His heart still pounded, and his hands would have shaken if he hadn't clenched one to his belt and the other around the dagger. He could feel the attention of all three alphas fixed on him, and the urge to kneel faded under a hysterical need to bolt.

"That will do," Treville said again, his voice softening. He approached Athos, hands open and outstretched. "Stand easy, Musketeer." He waited silently, a sword's length distant, until Athos took several ragged breathes and reined himself in. Athos could feel the fear coiling tightly inside his stomach, but he made himself sheath his dagger and stand to face the Captain. "You did well," Treville told him, still soothingly.

Had he been less weary, Athos would have bridled at being managed. As it was, he let a warm glow of pride roll over him at the praise. "Thank you, Captain."

"Report to me in the morning; we'll go to the King for your commission." The Captain turned to Porthos, saying, "I think you owe this man a drink."

Porthos laughed. "Yeah, I probably do. Wine?" he asked Aramis.

"Wine," Aramis confirmed. "And food. I'm glad you finished when you did, else we might have had to eat our recruit. Always embarrassing."

Before Athos knew what was happening, Porthos had slung an arm around his shoulders, and the other around Aramis,' and was steering them both into the street. "Gustav's?"

"Golden Arrow," Aramis replied firmly, and Porthos didn't argue past grumbling about the cost.

Not having to pretend exhaustion, Athos leaned into Porthos' shoulder. He could feel the alpha's strength seeping into him, not as fast as if he were bound, but enough to keep him on his feet. Porthos was strong and warm and smelled terrible, but also safe. The omega in Athos wanted to curl up at his feet and lay his head in his lap like a hunting dog.

The rational part of him wanted to pull away and return to his lodgings. No part of his body was free of pain, and his heart felt blistered from the heat of his instincts striking his resolution these past two days, like flint on steel. He didn't need even more time spent putting up a front for a pair of cocksure alphas. He needed to curl up in bed with several bottles and to seclude himself from the company of other men. It was little wonder that omegas were said to only survive cloistered away. Athos continued to lean against Porthos, but now imagined himself kneeling naked in a cool marble room, hands bound behind him, blindfold covering his eyes, hearing no sound save a distant rumble of surf. The picture calmed him, and, by the time they reached the drinking house, he found himself capable of minimal civility.

The Arrow, despite Porthos' complaints of extravagance, had nothing golden about it. If there had ever been so much as gilt paint on the sign, someone had long since scraped it off. The floor was more packed earth, and the light came mostly from the west-facing windows. This far from sunset, only a handful of men slouched about the place, alone or in pairs, but none speaking. Porthos unloaded Athos and Aramis at the table nearest the back wall, and headed toward the bar.

"Treville's right," Aramis said, snapping Athos' attention toward him. "You'll do well with the Musketeers." A pause. "As long as you don't goad one of your own into wringing your neck. Tell me, are you usually that insolent?"

Feet stretched out, arms folded, and hat balanced sideways to compensate for the bandaging around his temple, Aramis hardly looked like someone who could sling accusations of impertinence. However, Athos shrugged and replied, "Only when the company merits it."

"You _are_ trouble," Aramis said, but he was smiling.

Porthos returned with a girl carrying several bottles of wine, three glasses, and a tray of bread, cheese, and sausages. "Cook's not in yet," he said, settling next to Aramis.

Athos poured them all wine, downed his glass in two swallows, then poured another. The alcohol sang through his empty stomach, making him instantly giddy. As he finished the second glass, the world had started to dull to potentially bearable, though he knew he would be a bottle in before it got all the way there. Still, the overbearing presence of the alphas began to retreat to the periphery of his attention, and he could feel his spine and shoulders ease already.

"Have some bread," Porthos offered, eyebrow raised.

His stomach still felt too raw to take food, but Athos broke off a corner of the loaf nonetheless. "Where did you come by that?" he asked, indicating Porthos' bandaged eye.

"Fell down some stairs."

Aramis smiled tightly; he never showed any teeth, Athos realised. Something felt off about it. "Yes, that was clumsy of him, especially how he came to land on several Red Guards at the bottom."

The King's recent ban on duelling had, it seemed, done little to deter such encounters. "And did you happen to fall on these Cardinal's men as well?"

Athos realised that he'd misspoken when a low growl rippled out of Porthos' throat. Aramis rested a hand on his wrist, but, though his words were light, no amusement touched his lips. "Alas, the Spanish, and they fell on me."

Porthos' narrowed eyes were indicating that he should either shut up or change the subject, so Athos asked, "Do you know what I may expect tomorrow?"

Gladly taking up the new line, Porthos ran over a list of possible duties, most of which seemed to include following someone else around until he learned the ways of the palace. Athos had a strong impression that the Musketeers were currently stretched thin, and he further suspected some recent tragedy leading to that, but from the shadow in Aramis' smile and the way Porthos danced away from discussing recent history, he knew better than to press for information.

Around the end of the second bottle, the conversation turned to women, or rather Aramis' recent ill luck in courting the same.

"...though no fault in my charms," Aramis was saying defensively. "It seems that she only casts her eyes on beta men."

Porthos snorted, clearly not believing a word, but said, "Maybe she'd be interested in Athos here then."

Of all the topics in the world, romance levelled with dysentery as Athos' least favourite, but he raised his glass in acknowledgement then pushed off to get more wine.

"I think Rivier might be giving me the look," Porthos said as Athos set the fresh bottles on the table. "I might have a try."

Aramis grimaced. "Have you discovered whether or not Rivier enjoys a man's touch? You might be in for a surprise, my friend."

Porthos waved him off. "No, no, I saw her with the baker's brother. You know the one, right by your lodgings."

"Who's Rivier?" Athos asked, perplexed by the combination of familiarity and gender.

"'M. Étienne Rivier,' of the King's Musketeers," Aramis explained. "One of our concealed beauties."

"I see." Athos had run into men like that in the army: alpha women who lived and fought alongside their brothers. He'd done his best to keep them at a distance. It was almost comical how careful he'd been about that really, until he got home to the safety of his own Comté, that was.

"'Beauty' of course being being relative," Aramis continued. "It seems my unfortunate friend here fancies twice broken noses and more shoulders than hips." He shook his head. "It's a sad state of affairs when an alpha is reduced to sniffing around the door of his own kind." Porthos batted the back of his head, tipping his hat over his eyes, but Aramis concluded with, "And the baker's brother is an omega, which can hardly be counted as proof of liking men."

Athos froze, momentarily unable to speak. A slender part of him hoped that someone would object, but Porthos focused his rebuttal on having dallied with lots of alphas, and the virtues of a little excitement in one's bed. By the time he worked up to imprecations as to Aramis' cowardice for preferring those below him, the third bottle was gone, and Athos felt that he could slink off to bed without seeming rude.

The Musketeers barely looked up as he said his goodnights, too caught in their own dispute.

He took the fourth bottle with him out of spite, and let it carry him into blissful, and silent, oblivion once he returned to his room. It was only as the world faded around him that he realised that he had hardly thought of Anne all day. Then the tears came.


	3. Versailles. 1626.

The passage of a year found Athos riding with a dozen of his fellows deep in the King's Forest. A beautiful tawny hart had bolted into the thicket, and the King had insisted on following. They'd tracked it for hours, fruitlessly, eventually losing the trail in a bog. Evening closing in, Treville had insisted on turning back towards the royal hunting lodge. The King and his guard had long since outrun the rest of the party, and now even Treville had to check his pocket compass to determine the way back.

Athos palmed a piece of bloodroot out of his pocket, covering its consumption with a feigned cough. He was riding rearguard, with Aramis and Porthos forward, and the rest arranged around the King. Fallen leaves muffled the sounds of the horses, seeming to suck the music out of the ride. Athos could hear Aramis singing softly to himself up ahead, but the forest absorbed the sound like a church in Good Friday's shrouds. He felt his horse twitch uneasily, perhaps sensing the disquietude of its rider, and bent to pat its neck.

That was the only thing that saved his head being blown off. He heard the musket ball hiss through the air above him, knocking his hat to the ground.

Treville's voice carried over the crack of gun fire. "Right!" he bellowed, and, "Close on the king!" The Musketeers wheeled as a unit, like a flock of birds, following the orders without thought. Athos rode low to his horse, not turning to face their opponents, knowing he wouldn't have a shot if he did. He saw de Bois catch a ball in his shoulder, but cling raggedly to his horse, urging the beast forward.

The came to a tangle of fallen trees, two giant elms having fallen and pulled part of the forest down with them. Porthos and Aramis leaped the first lean trunks, their horses catching the light for a moment in a perfect twinned arc. They were dismounted and forming up behind the logs almost before their steeds touched hoof to loam. They fired pistol and musket back the way they'd come. Not, so far as Athos could tell, finding their mark, but allowing the rest of the company to find shelter in the windfall. How Treville had known of this natural fortification, Athos did not know.

He helped de Bois dismount and found a log to lean him against. Athos then relieved him of his musket, but left the pistol. A ball found the tree not far above them, showering them both with splinters. Keeping low, he crossed the little clearing to where Porthos was covering Aramis as he reloaded. Treville joined them a moment later. "What do you see?"

"Precious little," Aramis admitted, peering down his sights. "Shadows in the thicket."

He looked at Porthos, who nodded in agreement. "Going by rate of fire, I'd say they have us outnumbered, but not by much. Maybe twenty men? More of they're lousy shots."

"How far to the lodge," Athos asked, leaving implicit the question of re-enforcements.

"Not close enough for the sound to carry," Treville answered grimly. "Another hour's ride, perhaps less at a straight gallop, but the horses are already tired."

"It'll be dark in another couple hours," Porthos added. He was reloading now, while Aramis fired at his best guess. No scream answered his shot, and he swore softly before saying, "That will be about when we run out of powder."

Treville cursed. He didn't glance over his shoulder, but Athos could picture as well as he could the King crouched on the ground surrounded by Musketeers. Behind him, de Bois lay bleeding, and he wasn't the only one.

"How badly are you hit, Captain?" Athos asked, drawing sharp looks from the others.

"It's nothing," Treville insisted, but blood was dripping down his hand and a dark patch spread across his upper arm. Athos and Aramis exchanged a glance but could think of nothing to say. The musket fire had settled into sporadic shots from either side, both apparently waiting for a chance or opening. Their hunters most likely awaited darkness.

Aramis lined his sight on the edge of a tree and finally did find his mark. "Do you think a single rider could make it through?"

"What about the King?" Porthos suggested. "He's knows his way around a horse. If he could..." he shook his head.

"If he ran, they'd shoot him down as he rode," Treville said, "or follow him."

Athos said, "Yes, they would." Then he said, "Listen."

It took ten minutes to get Athos out of his shirt, jacket and trousers and into His Royal Highnesses,' and all of it doubled as close to the ground as they could and behind a screen of Musketeers. The boots wouldn't fit, and Athos kept his own sword and pistol. The man with the sharpest knife shaved Athos, using wine and saddle soap and leaving him nicked in a dozen places. Athos managed a single gulp of wine on the way past. They had to hope the hat would cover the hair.

"Let me go," Aramis had said, but Athos said it had to be a beta to really work. They'd never believe an alpha as the King.

"I need your sharp aim covering my back," Athos told him, not showing how gratified he was at the offer. In truth, the concentrated support of a dozen alphas buoyed him up until he felt he could fly. Fly he'd need to. He was ready.

Several things happened in short succession after that. The bulk of the Musketeers fired a concentrated volley into the woods. Athos sprang to the back of the king's stallion and headed down slope, or west by south west. Shots rang out of the trees behind him. Blinding red pain shot through his hip, and the horse screamed. Somewhere behind him, he knew that Rivier was leading her horse out, preparing to ride hell for leather to the south east, back towards the hunting lodge and re-enforcements.

Athos' right leg didn't seem to be working, but the horse was only grazed. He crouched low in the saddle, and kept his balance best he could. Under him, the horse had started to panic, and he could hear the shouts of men from behind. They'd be after him soon, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold on. He hissed at the horse, spurring it on, though it's eyes rolled wildly and foam flecked its mouth. He could feel its heart pounding, or maybe that was the blood pumping out of his leg.

With the loss of blood came elation. He was riding to a glorious death in the King's name. This was why he'd joined the Musketeers. Damned he might be, but at least he'd dedicated his last moments to service of his Sovereign and God Almighty.

That thought led to the realisation that if they caught him, they'd know he wasn't the King and would renew their attack on Treville and the others. Athos couldn't die until he finished the job. He could feel his hold on the reins slipping and the saddle had become slick with blood. Whatever came, he wasn't going to stay horsed much longer.

He tried to look about. He'd been so focused on the horse and his immediate need that he hadn't noticed the forest starting to thin. From the light up ahead, he realised that they'd soon reach the marshland that led to the river on the west side of the King's Forest. Already the ground beneath them had become soft, taking deep hoofmarks. With the trees becoming sparser, the undergrowth rose; thickets of brambles, still in leaf, began to block their way. Not much further and the thorns mixed with scrub oak, and patches of marsh. It would be impossible to track anyone through that, even if the horses didn't mire and drown.

The horse, still in full flight, sweat pouring off its sides, came to a fallen tree and took the leap at full stride. The saddle jolted under Athos, and he knew the horse would stumble the landing the moment before it lurched sideways. He had enough time to kick out of the stirrups and that was all. He was flying then, a long arc that seemed to take an impossible time to reach zenith. Nadir came more quickly. He heard more than felt the thicket give underneath him, but did feel the stunning impact of the ground. Pain like sheet lightening tore through his body, momentarily blinding him.

Dimly, Athos heard the king's horse recover and continue deeper into the marsh. In thrice the time it took to say the paternoster, mud splashed up around a dozen or more hooves. Athos lay still, breathing shallowly, but the horses and riders passed, still following the trail of his own steed. He wished it well, wherever it might end up.

He'd fallen half on his side, his good leg curled under him, his left arm pinned between his chest and the mud. He tried to push himself up, but his strength had fled. He could lift his head and that was all. Cautiously, he turned to peer at his hip, but couldn't make out anything but a bloody mess. He thought the ball had gone clean through the flesh, grazing the horse, but he was afraid to prod at it least he worsen the wound. He should bind it somehow, he knew, but the only thing he had were his clothes, and he couldn't rise himself enough to get out of them.

It didn't matter anyway. If he didn't bleed out or freeze in the first autumn frost, he would die of thirst and foul wounds some time in the next few days. This far off course, this far into the mash, no one would ever find him. That was if anyone looked at all. He had no idea if his companions had escaped or not. He regretted not knowing if he'd left them to their deaths when an extra sword might have made the difference.

He wished for a drink, anything to cut the pain of his body and of regret. Feeling through the pockets of his borrowed jacket, he found a small flask and fumbled to unstopper it with one hand. Brandy. Some of it dribbled to the ground as he tried to angle it into his mouth, but he closed his lips to the neck and saved the rest.

Restored, he found himself able to roll to his back. The other pocket contained a waxed leather bag. Athos fumbled with the ties a moment, then blinked in astonishment when the knot gave contents tumbled onto his chest.

What he had assumed would be candied fruit or jerky was in fact chunks of dried bloodroot. The same kind that Athos himself had either drunk in distillation or chewed dry every day of his life since he'd woken an omega.

Darkness came soon after, but as the world faded around Athos, he felt a loyalty to the King that went past mere duty, and gladness filled him. He'd given his life for something that mattered. He could lay that at least at God's feet and see what He'd have of it.

* * *

Anne came to him in the night. Not the real Anne, or even her ghost, but a vision of her as Athos had last seen her: tearless, robed in virginal white and Madonna-blue flowers, a rope around her neck. She seemed to create her own illumination in that moonless night. Athos tried to reach up to her, but she stood too far away, watching dispassionately as he bled into the mud. The night grew cold. The glimmer of frost forming on Athos' clothes caught in the light of Anne's presence.

Athos could feel his blood slowing as the cold worked its way down to his bones. He'd shivered for a while, but now didn't seem to have the strength even for that, and drifted in and out of awareness. Anne's image faded with the dawn, the light washing her away. Athos wished she had stayed. He was now realising that he didn't want to die alone. He wished that Thomas had come to him too, but knew didn't deserve to see even a spectre of his brother. Even an mutely accusing ghost would bring more relief than he could ever earn.

The low morning sun began to warm his body, or his leg had started to rot already, and fever was consuming him. He wished it would just finish him already, bypass these earthly pains and carry himself unto everlasting fires directly.

"Fire," he murmured, tongue tasting salt as perspiration beaded his upper lip. It felt strange not having moustaches. Maybe fire had taken them, too. No, that had been wine. He could taste it and the soap as well, still sticking to his skin. He focused on the taste, letting it fill his whole world until the rise and fall of distant voices faded away.

The world seemed to shake for a moment, and he recognised the beat of hooves on wet earth. "Odd place to take a ride," he thought aloud, but they too faded, so they must have found somewhere better after all. It left him alone again. He called for Anne, but he knew his voice sounded of little more than a parched croak.

He heard new voices all the same, strange ones and one he thought he should know. Then followed shouting, and a clamour of metal and splinters, until he had to close his eyes against the sound. He heard someone calling his name, but it felt too late to turn back, so he drifted away again.

* * *

When he woke it was dark, and the world felt soft and warm. His hip ached, but no longer burned. Athos tried to lift his head, and found he still had no strength at all. He turned it instead, peering over the heaped bedclothes and pillows, and a finer mattress then he's slept on outside of his own Comté. He felt adrift in a cloud of white linen, lamb's wool and down.

A candle flickered somewhere out in the darkness, making the ceiling appear to dance with itself. Someone must be sitting watch. Athos tried to speak, then cleared his throat and tried again. "The King?" he asked.

"You're awake." That was Aramis' voice, the one he'd heard before, and soon he leaned over Athos, hand feeling his brow. "How do you feel."

"The King," Athos pressed. He had to know, though the relief at seeing even one of his comrades alive and unharmed almost undid him.

"Unhurt. Grateful. In Paris," Aramis assured him. "You're in his bed at the lodge." He was pawing through the sheets to uncover Athos' hip. "Treville's arm's laid up, but mending. We lost de Bois and Lacroix." Gentle fingers prodded at bandages, then covered him up again.

Athos nodded. He knew he'd mourn his companions in time, but all he could feel now was stunning gratitude at still having his King, his Captain and his friends. He tried to swallow the dryness out of his mouth, and moaned in pleasure as Aramis held a cup of broth to his lips. He only tipped it enough to give Athos the smallest sip, but the warmth filled him immediately.

"He's awake," Aramis said to someone Athos couldn't see. "Finally."

"Been watching over your sorry ass for two days," Porthos explained, but he sounded indulgent again. He could have been playing with a kitten all that time. "I'm glad to see your eyes open. We had a hell of a time finding you, forester and his dogs and all, then you looked like death when we did."

"I thought I'd die there," Athos said. This world of soft beds and and kind friends felt less real than the spectre of Anne in the white dress. "I thought I saw _her_." He didn't say who, and he never would. Let them think of nobility and lost love. Another lie, but one he told for the sake of keeping company at all. If they ever found the least truth about him, they would hardly look to his rescue for a night and a day.

"Must have been a shock to wake up to his ugly mug, then," Porthos said, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Aramis.

Wordless, Athos shook his head. He extracted his sword hand from under the blankets and held it up. Aramis pressed it between both of his, and Porthos closed his own hands over that. The warm, possessive love of the alphas surrounded and protected him. Just this once, Athos didn't have to stand strong and willing to fight. He had surrendered to death, and his friends had found him. He could rest now.

"As if we'd ever leave you," Aramis said, and Athos found himself obliged to blink away tears.

* * *

Aramis, re-enforced with a letter from Treville, refused to let Athos out of bed either that day or the day after. The only thing that saved Athos from an unwanted revelation was convincing Porthos to bring him his saddlebags and the bloodroot therein. The fever, it seemed, had suppressed his scent until now.

On the third day, he asked to at least return to Paris and his own lodgings so that he might recover in peace. Aramis didn't even look up from his book, but Porthos – his big hands working through new and alarming ways to shuffle a deck of cards – said, "What, aren't we peaceful enough for you?" Which made Aramis laugh, and Athos sink back into the bed in despair.

Maybe a little omega had come through the fever after all. Athos had heard that unbound alphas could start to brood over nothing, like a hen set on river stones, but he'd never seen one do it before, let alone a brace of them. This _care_ more than anything else had begun to work under his skin until he felt loath to push into recovery as he knew he should. If he kept giving his instincts the rein that he was, he'd lie in bed and let them cosset him until he was ready to roll over and spread his legs, position in the Musketeers be damned.

That thought made Athos struggle to prop himself higher against his pillows and ask if someone would fetch him a book. Any book. He ended up with the third volume _Ars Amatoria_ , which is what happened when you asked for something to read and Aramis had access to the king's library. He flipped though to the lewd section near the end, and wondered anew what Ovid, or any of the Ancients, would have made of the Transmutation of Mankind. His tutors had provided him with a series of unconvincing commentaries to the effect that anyone from Plato to Thomas d'Aquin might be translated into modern terms by simply transposing "Man" to "Alpha" and "Woman" to "Omega," though if the woman was also an alpha, then the situation became murky. Athos suspected that had Aristotle at least – if not St Augustine – lived when the Black Sleep swept across the world, killing and transmuting as it went, he might well have come up with a more nuanced treatise.

Footsteps pounded down the hall outside their rooms, allowing Aramis and Porthos time to rise and loosen their swords – and Athos to stuff his book under a pillow – before the doors to the outer rooms burst open without a knock.

"What–" started Aramis.

The forester's youngest son tore into the bed chamber, catching himself on the a chair to prevent himself hurtling on top Athos. "Mama said. The Cardinal. Twenty Red Guards. Come for M. Athos," he gasped.

Porthos and Aramis spun to look at Athos, hands on their swords, bristling with aggression. Athos raised his hand to stay them. He'd known this was coming. "I hope you'll excuse me, my friends," he said. He tried to sound seductive and placating, to use the power to appease that omegas were supposed to possess. He didn't think it worked without the scent. "The Cardinal simply wishes to discuss a matter of theology."

" _Theology_?" Aramis demanded at the same time Porthos started to say, "My ass, he–"

They wanted to protect him. They'd die fighting off a score of Red Guards in order to protect him. The thought warmed Athos to his soul, but also made his choice easier. No matter how much he wanted to curl under the blankets and let the alphas do their work, he knew that this was not something swords would settle. "Indeed. We found we disagree on the point of _Rhetorica's_ influence on Augustine. I believe he's come to discuss it further."

"But..." Porthos began.

Athos let his hand fall limp and tilted his head down so that he looked up at them from under his lashes. "Please," he said, voice barely a whisper. "I have been expecting him. You must let us speak without listening or interrupting. If you do that, no harm will come to me."

Porthos lifted his hand from his hilt first, and Aramis followed a heartbeat later. They'd only just done so when Cardinal Richelieu swept into the room. He was alone, save for two guards on the outer doors. A cut of his eyes indicated that he wished the Musketeers to leave, but they looked to Athos one last time. He nodded, and Porthos and Aramis left, their expressions making clear that should anything happen to Athos, there would be consequences. The doors clicked shut, first the inner, then the outer, and Athos was alone with the Cardinal.

Athos had stood in the Cardinal Richelieu's presence on dozens of occasions over the last year, but they had never exchanged a word, nor had Athos expected them to. The Cardinal was a thin, greying man, and a beta besides, but far too many crowned heads had underestimated him to their peril. They saw a kingdom ruled by two betas, and thought advantage might be taken. Athos had no illusions as to what the Cardinal would or would not do for France, only hoped to he'd survive this conversation. As much as he would gladly spend his life in the King's service, he would prefer not to do so under a pillow held over his face by that monarch's first minister.

They watched each other in silence, the Cardinal seeming to assess Athos, Athos waiting for permission to speak. At last the Cardinal said, "So," the single word dragging out into a multitude of meanings.

"My apologies for not rising in Your Eminence's presence," Athos said. "I find myself inconvenienced."

The Cardinal snorted and flipped his cloak aside to sit in Aramis' abandoned chair. "You know why I'm here?"

"To protect the King," Athos answered.

"And why do you think would I need to do that?"

"His Majesty left an object in my care, and you wish to ensure that it was properly disposed of and will not cause him embarrassment. It has been, and it will not."

The Cardinal's mouth curved up into a small, lethal smile. "That is a generous view of the situation."

"As you say." Athos folded his hands together under the coverlet to hide their shaking. Beta the Cardinal might be, but he projected every ounce of predatory intent as a lioness on the prowl. "How do you see it, Your Eminence?"

"I see that information vital to the security of France has come into the hands of one of Captain Treville's guard dogs." He was leaning forward, face close enough for Athos to smell his breath, his voice a whisper. "A man with no name, about whom I know nothing."

"I left an ancient and honourable name and a prosperous estate to enter the King's guard," Athos said carefully. "I did so of my own accord, neither bound nor coerced, because I wished to serve my God and my country. Captain Treville will confirm it."

"I'm sure he will." The Cardinal's tone that implied a lack of confidence in information so obtained. He folded his long hands, across his knees, attention focusing on his rings of office. It seemed to Athos as though they pulled him down.

"You have another hold on me," Athos said at last. He knew the Cardinal knew, and probably knew that Athos knew that as well, yet it hung unspoken over Athos' neck.

"You recognised the contents of package."

"I did."

"The knowledge is not exclusive." A gleam in the Cardinal's eye told Athos that he'd already come to another conclusion. The word of an omega had little worth, especially one who'd already been counterfeiting his identity.

"But it is extremely rare outside of certain circles."

That knife-edge smile again. "To whom do you belong?"

It was not something Athos had considered in a long time. He had always counted on his disguise holding, so used to his freedom that he barely gave thought to the fate of an unbound omega. "A man I owe little love." The truth, of a kind: since Thomas' death, the title and holdings would legally go to their second cousin Antoine, who Athos didn't know well enough to dislike. It would be up to him to ward Athos until a marriage might be arranged. "So what now, Cardinal? Will you kill me where I lie?"

"Or ruin you?" The Cardinal spread his hands, studying the palms. When he straightened, his face slid back into its usual reserved mask. "No. Not today." He stood, and Athos pushed himself up on an elbow in accord. "I see no danger here, and His Majesty is very fond of his pets, you in particular, it would seem." A glance around the King's bedroom gave an impression of supreme profligacy, and the Cardinal's lips pressed into a thin line. "I wouldn't think of attempting to deprive him."

Athos sighed in relief; he'd found himself all of a sudden unwilling to die, though he might have taken that over the alternative. "I will remember it, Your Eminence."

"As will I." It wasn't a threat, but Athos knew the weight those words held. The Cardinal turned to leave.

"If I may ask," Athos said, halting his departure. "News has been scarce out here. Have the assassins come to justice?"

This time Richelieu's didn't smile, and that was more frightening still. "They have been found, as have their masters." At the outer doors he paused and added. "I've found that 'justice' is a term that depends largely on point of view, haven't you? Good day, Monsieur Athos." With a swirl of red and black, he was gone.

When Porthos and Aramis hurried back in, they found Athos slumped into his bed, pale as the sheets but alive, as he'd promised he would be.

"What the hell was that about?" Porthos demanded, but Athos shook his head and wouldn't say a word.


	4. The Loire Valley. 1628.

The spring of Athos' third year with the Musketeers found the three of them leading their horses through a downpour. A solid week of rain had washed out the main bridge, and Treville had sent them up river to scout the alternatives. Thus far they'd mostly found mud.

When Aramis broke their third consecutive hour of sodden silence, he spoke with the air of a man who had endured past misery and into philosophy. "I am thinking," said he, "of building an ark."

"Too late for that," Porthos grunted, pulling his hood further down over his eyes. It persisted in dripping on his nose. He'd said, in the last words they'd exchanged, that just wearing his hat made his ears cold. Athos didn't know how he could tell; they were all soaked to the skin and frozen on top of it.

"I believe I saw smoke ahead. There might be a village nearby." There was always a village, but whether it would be pleased to shelter three of the King's Musketeers this deep into Huguenot country was another question entirely, as much as the townships north of the river claimed to have submitted to the king's rule. "Or we could camp," Athos said, thinking it would probably be safer. At the looks on his friends' faces, he added, "Or not, if you'd prefer."

They fell back into their mute trudge, heads down, trying to pick the shallowest mires in a road all over mud and wagon ruts. Occasionally, they passed a stuck wheel or splintered axle that had been cast aside by previous travellers. They made the only signs of life they'd seen most of the day. "We're the only ones stupid enough to be out in this," Porthos had said some time that morning. "What a time to be on campaign."

Now, he said, "Do you hear something?"

Athos opened his mouth to answer in the negative, but then he did: a sound like growling thunder, like a great wall collapsing.

"Get away from–" Aramis started to say, but he was too late.

A roiling bank of flood water pushed around the bend in the river, surging over the banks and sweeping the road clean before it.

Athos let got of the reins and instinctively stepped toward Porthos. Ahead of him, Aramis was doing the same. Porthos caught both of them by the arm and yanked them in close, crushing them to his body. Athos took a last deep breath, and then river took them.

It tore his cloak away immediately. Athos clung to Porthos' shirt, hoping it would hold, and tried to hold his breath against the stunning cold. Something struck him across the shoulders, or he struck something, driving the air from his body. His fingers tightened convulsively, but the steel bar of Porthos' arm held him fast. He tried to kick to the surface, drowning mind struggling to find air, but he couldn't tell which way was up. Opening his eyes revealed nothing but undifferentiated mud. Once, he caught a flash of light, but it twisted away before he could push toward it.

First red then darkness crept into Athos vision, and he knew that he would have to breath soon, whether it be air or water. He thought of praying, as he knew Aramis probably was, for his friends' salvation if not his own, but his hypocrisy would not extend that far. At least, Athos thought, he would not be dying alone. Under those circumstances, however, he did not want to die at all. The cost was too high.

The world changed, bursting from Stygian depths to grey and light air in the space of a heartbeat. Athos gasped for breath too soon, taking in river water, coughed, then gasped again. He could see the side of Porthos' face, the top of Aramis' head. Blood tricked down Porthos' temple, but his eyes were open. Beyond them, only water. Athos thought he caught a glimpse of tree tops as they crested a wave, but the flood spun them away.

The river sucked them down again. This time, Athos kept his eyes closed and concentrated on holding on. He wondered if Porthos might have a better chance on his own, without he or Aramis sapping his strength, but none of them could fight the river. If Porthos wanted to hold on, Athos would as well.

He saw trees closer this time the river spat them up. When Porthos surged towards them, flexing his body like a dolphin, Athos kicked after. The impact of their bodies against the trunk finally knocked them apart, but Athos held to the tree, and Porthos held on to Aramis and caught the next one.

As he regained his breath, Athos realised they'd come to an island in the midst of the river, perhaps forty paces across and seeming much longer downstream. It must have stood high above the river at low water, but now its grove of poplars stood half submerged. More debris caught against the sunken trunks: planking, part of a cart, a drowned goat. Above the water, the shore sloped up gently up a dozen feet to a rocky crown.

"Help me! He's not breathing." Porthos' voice was high and panicked.

Athos blindly pushed towards him, shoving debris out of the way and letting the current carry him from tree to tree. Aramis floated face up, held clear of the water in Porthos' arms. Athos took his arm, and they hauled him ashore between them. He lay limp as the dead, but Athos could hear a faint pulse when he pressed an ear to his chest. Together, they flipped Aramis onto his stomach, Porthos holding him half on his knees while Athos pounded his back with the flat of his hand.

"Come on, come on, come on," Porthos muttered, and Athos' thoughts echoed the prayer until Aramis stiffened in their grasp. He gasped then coughed until he choked up a river's worth of water and phlegm.

"There you are." Porthos' squeezed Aramis' arm and ran a rough hand through his hair, then through Athos' when he let himself fall forward, pressing his cheek to Aramis' shoulder. "We're all right," he murmured, as one would to a spooked horse. Athos had the feeling that he was saying it as much to himself as to Aramis.

"Anyone hurt?" Athos asked. His voice sounded as raw as it felt.

"Nothing much," Porthos told him, blinking away the blood that dripped from his brow into his eyelashes. Athos peered at him but saw only a small cut along his hairline. "Scrapes and bruises. You?"

Athos shrugged and winced as that pulled the blow to his shoulders. "The same."

"I, for one, would be cured by a hot bath." Aramis' still sounded laboured, but he spoke with clarity. Athos sighed with relief and pressed a kiss to Aramis' shoulder.

"No chance of that any time soon," Porthos said. He helped Athos ease Aramis over so that he was half sitting propped between them.

The river surrounded them. Athos pulled his knees against his chest, shivering, and gazed out across the water. Even the near shore lay a over a hundred paces distant, and the water ran hard. As he watched, a thatched roof swept past at the speed of a brisk trot. Even God's most providential mood wouldn't spare them a second time should they try to swim. "Thank you," he told Porthos. "Without your strength–"

"We'd all be trapped on _different_ islands," Aramis finished, but he reached down to press Porthos' hand.

Athos said, "I suppose that if the water continues to rise, we might climb the trees."

"The rain seems to be lightening," Aramis offered, more out of optimism than observation.

"We're going to be here for a while." Porthos pushed himself to his feet, letting Aramis slump into Athos. He wavered for a moment, putting out a hand to steady himself against a tree. Athos realised what saving them must have cost him. "I'm going to go see how dead that goat is. Does anyone have dry powder? My horn's gone."

Athos still had his powder horn and his dagger, but the flood had carried away his sword, pistol and other effects. Inside the horn, the powder formed damp clumps but wasn't soaked through. Everything else, however, was.

It took until dusk to get a smoking fire started. Porthos had butchered the goat with Athos' parrying dagger, and they roasted bloody chunks over the flames. They burned their fingers and mouths eating it too quickly, and soon fell asleep huddled together on Aramis' spread cloak.

* * *

Aramis had an elbow jammed in his ribs, and Porthos' hand had wandered further south than Athos preferred, but Athos found himself loath to move. He lay closest to the banked fire, with Aramis behind him and Porthos on the weather side with an arm over both of them, and world felt safe and warm. Only a growing urge to relieve himself forced Athos out of their embrace and into the drizzly morning.

The cold hit then. They were all still soaked through, despite desultory attempts to dry by the fire. Their improvised curfew of rocks and planks seemed to have protected the embers, but it took Athos a pile of branch shavings, and no little profanity, to coax it to flame. He weighed the advantages of warmth against their diminishing supply of fallen poplar branches and unsaturated river salvage, and put a few more branches on anyway. The others would be awake and wanting breakfast soon.

Only when the fire crackled and smoked, and chunks of goat were skewered and roasting, did Athos' fingers stray to the inner pocket of his jacket. The little package of bloodroot probably wasn't that dry anymore, even wrapped in waxed leather, but he hoped it would still prove effective. He'd eaten the root damp on previous campaigns, if not completely saturated. He could always take a little more to be certain. He'd packed a fortnight's worth before they left camp, with an additional supply in his saddlebags.

Where a pocket should have been, he found nothing but a dangling button. Athos almost ripped out the rest of his fastenings getting his jacket open to confirm what he already knew: that the little inner pocket had ripped open, disgorging its contents into the flood. He shrugged out of the jacket searched it comprehensively, patted down his trousers, then scoured the mud where they'd hauled Aramis ashore. He'd waded out amongst the sunken trees when Porthos woke and demanded to know what in God's Name he was doing.

"I thought I'd look for supplies." He had to yell to be heard over the roar of the flood, but that was good. It doubtless covered the unsteadiness in his voice. The little package was gone. He had no bloodroot, nor any way of getting it.

They'd have to wait for the flood to abate to get off the island, and even after that it could be days back to camp travelling on foot as they were. It was possible that Treville would send someone after them, and that person would see them out here, through the mist and rain, and possible that they'd somehow get a rope across, and that they'd manage a crossing from there. It was also possible that a Miracle of God would grant the power of flight unto Cardinal Richelieu, and he would wing up river and save them all.

The secret apothecary had told him that going even two days without bloodroot would reveal his scent. If something didn't happen soon, Porthos and Aramis would _know_ and Athos' life as a Musketeer would be over.

Gathering an armful of driftwood, Athos returned to shore. Aramis had propped himself on an elbow and was rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Next time, wait for one of us," Porthos said, helping him stack the wood near the fire. "It's not safe in the water."

Athos shrugged, making a study of turning the roasting meat. "I would have been swept away or I wouldn't. There's nothing you could have done in either case." Privately, he wondered which would have been the better outcome. He decided to give that miracle until the next day, and then he would make his choice.

* * *

Over the course of the day, Porthos and Aramis rigged a plumb and square to set sticks in the mud for every inch the water rose or fell; Athos walked around the island; the three of them hauled the broken cart out of the river; Aramis and Porthos formed it into a shelter for the fire; Athos butchered the remainder of the goat into strips for smoking, and walked around the island; Porthos and Aramis salvaged a piece of canvas and enough planks to build a lean-to abutting the fire shelter; Athos, on one of his walks, found several clay pots and set them out to collect rainwater; Porthos found several roughly geometric stones and argued with Aramis about the odds of each side landing sky-ward, and Athos walked around the island.

It took about ten minutes to do, the strip of land tapering downstream from the rocky head where they'd washed ashore. The poplars of the firm ground gave way to silt and willow scrub as the island sloped gently into the river. Climbing the rocks, Athos could make out the top of a bell tower emerging behind a hill a few miles upstream. He'd remembered seeing its village across the river the day before, and came to understand that they'd only washed about three leagues from where the flood first took them. It had seemed like further than that. He returned to the shore and followed it until he came to the camp again.

His thoughts followed the same steady circles as his feet, slowly wearing him down while perversely getting him nowhere at all. He couldn't see a way out. Rather, he couldn't see a way out with his career intact. The rain may have lightened, but the river proved slower to drop. Last Athos had looked at the little row of sticks, it had fallen perhaps a hand since that morning; it was now late afternoon. Thus two choices remained. He could throw himself on Porthos and Aramis' mercy, confess all, and hope that their comradeship overrode his lies and obfuscation, to say nothing of the law. He did not doubt that they would turn him into Treville, who would be obliged to render Athos unto Cousin Antoine. Or, Athos could attempt to swim to shore in the same spirit as despairing English gentlemen make to shoot the rapids under London Bridge.

The latter idea held a certain appeal. It would be simple, easy and final. Never again would he have to worry about discovery, or giving into his nature, or, worst of all, the ghost of Anne dogging his steps. He could simply let go, and the Devil would take his due.

It was the attractiveness of the idea that gave him pause. It felt like the pull of submission to an alpha, and some cord of his heart, hardened by long years of discipline, resisted it. He added strength to that resistance by determining not to leave his friends alone without explanation. If they were to hate him, they deserved to do so honestly. They'd deserved honesty for a long time now.

As Athos approached the camp again, he came to a resolve to tell them now and not wait another night. He'd never sleep in any case.

Porthos was fussing with the side of the upturned cart, with Aramis hovering at his shoulder, hand raised to intercede but holding back until an opportune moment. They both turned at Athos' approach, voices piling atop each other in a demand for his partisanship on an issue not entirely made clear. Athos held up a hand in a plea for clemency, curling his mouth into a smile he did not feel. All he _could_ feel was what thought was his heart breaking.

"Gentlemen," he said, speaking quickly, like pulling an arrow from a wound. "I fear I owe you both an apology."

"What sin could you possibly committed on this rock?" Aramis asked. He half turned to face Athos, but clearly had most of his mind on the fire.

Porthos cuffed him on the back of the head. "He's finally going to admit to sneaking the goat's tail, when I said I had my eye on it." 

"No, I..." Momentum lost, Athos floundered. How could he even begin to admit to something that he had never explicitly told another living soul. Everyone who ever knew – his mother, Thomas, Anne, Richelieu – had found out on their own or followed a carefully laid implication. That wouldn't work here. He should have put more time into thinking of what to say, not just deciding to say something. It was too late now.

For the first time since Anne's death, he followed the call of his unhardened heart and dropped to his knees. The posture came instinctively: legs apart, hands resting on his knees, palm up and empty, back straight, head bowed. Giving in let the truth come a little easier. He spoke calmly, tonelessly to his ears, but his voice carried and silenced Porthos and Aramis' startled exclamations.

"I've lied to you since the day we met. I've lied every day of my life since the day I woke from the Black Sleep. I've hidden my true nature, and in doing so not only betrayed your trust and Captain Treville's, but broken the laws of God and France." He wished he could look up, could see how deeply his words cut, but he feared it more still. Fear won, and his eyes stayed firmly fixed on Aramis' boots. "You see, Messieurs, it's all counterfeiting. I'm not a beta, and I never was. The truth is that I am an omega."

Aramis laughed. It sounded too high, and choked off before its natural end. "That's not possible."

"I assure you, it is."

"But how–"

"There is a drug. I took it daily to suppress my scent and keep the heat at bay."

Aramis rocked on his heels then forward on his toes. "'Took'? You don't have any, do you? You lost it in the flood. That's why–" his words stumbled over each other in a torrent of disbelief, "That's why you're doing this now."

"I never intended to tell you," Athos admitted. He had gone beyond fear into simple acceptance. He would kneel for the alphas and tell them everything they asked of him, and let them choose for him. It was a kind of release more profound than letting the river carry him away. "Circumstances forced my hand."

"Sweet Christ," Aramis whispered, voice stark against Porthos' ominous silence. "Does Treville know?"

"He does not."

"Does anyone know?"

"Cardinal Richelieu discovered the truth. He may have told the King. No one else yet living."

The sound Aramis made lay somewhere between a scoff and bitten off curse. He turned away, striding out of Athos' field of vision, only to return moments later to demand, "The Cardinal? You told the Cardinal?" Athos hadn't told anyone, but he didn't see the point of trying to make the correction. "Excellent! The sworn enemy of our company knows that we're harbouring a delinquent omega, and yet our own Captain does not. You didn't tell him. You never planned to tell him. Or your _friends_."

The boots spun in the mud and stalked off toward the river. Athos let his eyes close and focused on drawing one breath after another. He had thought the pain of this would be sharp and clean like a sword thrust or a lash, but it burned and festered and made unclean. This is what executing Anne had felt like: betrayal, dishonour, hopelessness.

When Porthos finally spoke, he voice was as mild as he had ever heard it, but Athos felt in his bones the same dread as when they first apprehend the oncoming flood. "Omegas lie," he said, and there was the honest pain of a blow. "They can't look after themselves so they manipulate alphas into doing it for them. First thing he did was find the pair of us to protect him, and he kept with us for _three years_ without a damn word. Who do you think will catch it if anyone finds out? Treville. He put the Captain's career on the line and didn't even let him know. What if the Cardinal decides to expose him? Did he even think what would happen to the Musketeers?"

"I thought of it," Athos said, though the truth was that he'd mostly thought of the consequences for himself. He had only briefly considered the scandalous implications of a delinquent omega wearing the King's uniform. "I wished to be free, to serve the King, as any man would. I never meant to cause you or Captain Treville harm, and I have never made any man my protector."

In the distance, Aramis snorted in disbelief. Porthos accused, "You say that on your knees," and turned away.

The abruptness of his withdrawal struck Athos like a blow to the stomach. His shoulders slumped and his whole body curved inward. He wanted to wrap his arms around his stomach, to curl up on the mud and weep, but he felt frozen in place. He had submitted to the alphas and they had not released him. His willpower eroding, all he had to rest on was the instinct to stay where he was until commanded otherwise.

He knelt for a long time, listening to the fire pop and spit and to the patter of the rain. More distantly, the river roared and familiar voices kept hushed conference, but Athos perception folded in around him. The world reduced to water, smoke, a patch of mud, and two sets of retreating footprints.

He didn't know how much time passed before he came to himself and rose stiffly to his feet. He looked about him and found that the light had declined to early evening and the rain had stopped. Aramis and Porthos stood near the water, leaning against each other in wordless support. His face was wet, Athos realised, and he scrubbed his hands across it, refusing to allow himself any more tears.

Porthos caught his eye, but Athos turned away. He let his feet find the familiar path around the island.

His mind felt like the Augean stables after the river, his thoughts swept clean. He had made his choice, and everything that happened now would be consequences of it. Once they escaped the island, Porthos and Aramis would tell Treville, who would return him to Cousin Antoine, who would take possession of the Comté de la Fère and attempt to arrange a marriage for Athos. He'd be challenged to find anyone who would want a scarred, thirty-two-year-old stray with no graces and no desire to submit, but the de la Fère bloodline compensated for many flaws. Antoine would likely find him somewhere quiet in the country, where he would not be recognised, an older alpha perhaps, someone looking for a stable second partner. Athos wondered what that would be like: days of nothing by baring sons and keeping accounts, the life from which his mother had wished to spare him.

He had tried to fulfil her hopes for him, and his own for himself, the God seemed determined to remind him of his true nature and destiny. First with Anne, and now with a flood. Athos supposed that he could try to escape it again. He could flee to England or New France, change his name again, start anew. The river remained, of course, an option, but he could not seem to summon the will for even that much rebellion. No, he would stay. Maybe in submission, he would finally find some kind of redemption.

When Athos reached the farthest tip of the island, where the waters pulled it into an ever-narrowing spit of sand, he stopped and stared down the river. He could see that the flood had finally begun to abate, leaving much more of the sand exposed than even a few hours ago. They'd probably be able to leave in the next day or so. And then...

Foolishly, Athos wished that this was all some fashion of nightmare, and that he'd wake in the King's camp without any of it having happened. Even that fantasy did not last. He had ever been too much the realist.

"I hope you're not planing on jumping in." Porthos' voice. He must have followed Athos, though he had not heard him.

"No," Athos told him. "I find that the water calms me ."

He felt a large, clammy hand fall on his shoulder. "Good. I've finally got halfway dry; I'd have to start all over again after I went in after you."

As he let himself be tugged around and nudged back up the path, Athos asked, "Would you?" He meant the question honestly, but a sideways look at Porthos indicated that he'd said the wrong thing again.

"Two alphas alone with an omega, and the omega dies," Porthos snapped. "How does that look? Especially for someone like me."

Athos nodded numbly. He never seemed to think of these things. "No one would know."

"People _always_ know." Porthos sounded tired, and Athos was sorry for it. "With your luck, your body'd wash up at the King's feet. Now, come back to camp. We'll eat more of that damn goat and sort things out in the morning."

What remained to sort out, Athos did not know, but he followed Porthos up the trail. Whether they were speaking to him or not, he would find it pleasant to spend this last night with his companions.


	5. The Loire. 1628.

They all slept in the lean-to, but Athos noticed that Aramis had expanded it in his absence, creating enough room for he and Porthos to sleep on top of each other on one side, and still have several feet between them and Athos, if he lay against the far wall. Getting the inside wall against the cart was meant as compensation for the lack of shared warmth, but Athos decided that he'd have camped on a glacier, if only it meant that the other two would touch him.

For all the events of the day, Athos slept quickly and soundly, and woke surrounded by strong limbs and warmth. Some time in the night, Porthos and Aramis had rolled over to his side, and now both sprawled on top of him. Porthos had buried his face in Athos' neck and thrown a leg over his, while Aramis' hands entwined in his shirt. Both slept soundly and immovably.

Athos lay as still as he could, unsure how to extract himself. He realised that his scent had come in sooner than he'd thought, and that was probably what had attracted the alphas. Only he wasn't sure what to do about it. If they woke and found themselves thus entangled, they would rightly blame him for using his scent to manipulate them, but he wasn't sure how to get out from under them without waking them, and worse still, he didn't want to do so. If he could lie here forever, feeling their warmth and protection, Porthos' breath in his ear and the beat of their pulses against his skin, he would gladly do so.

He ended up gently prying Aramis' fingers loose, making shushing noises when he grumbled, then wiggling out from under them one inch at a time. Porthos stirred, kissed his hair, and murmured that Athos smelled good, before subsiding back into sleep.

When he at last pulled free, Athos wrapped himself in his jacket and went to assess the day. The sun hadn't quite touched the horizon, but a flare of orange cloud marked its rising. Otherwise, the sky was clear; a half moon rode high above. The river had dropped overnight; not just dropped, but plummeted, leaving the little row of measuring sticks high and dry. Though the current still swept past, only about forty paces lay between the island and the near shore, and twice that to the far. He still wouldn't put a wager on swimming it, but it might be rafted, and the chances of signalling for help looked significantly better.

The thought should have lightened his heart, but now all he could think of was how as long as they stayed on the island, Porthos and Aramis would have to put up with him. A sliver of guilt crept in at the idea of holding them hostage in his company, it felt too much like there was truth to Porthos' accusations, but he quashed the thought. The river had taken everything from him. He couldn't begrudge himself taking this small final pleasure from it. There would be the rest of this day, or possibly that and the next, as they returned to the company, and that would be all he had.

Behind him, he could hear Porthos stretching and groaning as he woke, and a murmur of voices as he asked Aramis something. The intimacy of the conversation made Athos' heart ache all over again, but he squared his shoulders and turned to face them as they emerged. He would not kneel again. Porthos was right: it wasn't fair to ask that of them.

"Fine day," he said, and they looked at him like he'd grown another head.

Porthos inhaled, broad chest expanding under the thin white shirt, then turned to Aramis. "You smell that?"

Aramis nodded, looking a little sick. "I kept telling myself that it couldn't be real, that this was all a twisted joke you and Athos cooked up. That would be just like you, but now..."

They were smelling him, Athos realised, smelling what he was. Shame suffused him, and no little fear. "What now, Messieurs?" he asked, reminding himself of his renewed ban on submission. He'd been so good at it before, but now they knew, and he knew they knew, and besides he'd given in once already. The pull to take his appointed place felt stronger, and he had to brace his legs and fold his arms across his chest.

"We have questions," Porthos said, matching his pose. They stood about ten paces apart, and Athos had the river at his back, but still he shivered.

"I will answer what I can."

Porthos opened his mouth, but Aramis overrode him, demanding, "When are you going into heat?"

Astonished, Athos tried to scrabbled for an answer. No one asked that, not of someone who wasn't a working girl. It was up to an omega and his guardian to keep track of such things, and keep the omega out of the way when it occurred, preferably sequestered with the alpha to whom he was bound. "I–" he started to say, only to be cut off by Porthos this time.

"We only ask because we're worried it'll be soon, and with two of us and only one of you." He glanced at Aramis, whose cheeks had coloured. "You maybe don't understand what's it's like for us, being around an omega in heat. You don't control what you do. All you want is to get a piece of that, and if you have to rip your best friend to shreds, then that's the way it goes. Even just the scent of you now, there's a need."

Fights between alphas, real fights, death matches over omegas, were something Athos had heard of in novels more than actually seen. They were one of the reasons the army made sure to keep omegas as far away as possible, officially at least. It fell apart around civilians. Sieges were the worst. Athos imagined Aramis with Porthos' blood on his slender hands, soaking his shirt, smeared across his face, and felt suddenly ill. It hadn't occurred to him before that alphas feared omegas as much as he feared them. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Rubbish," Porthos growled, but Aramis touched his arm admonishingly.

"You've never stopped taking your drug before, have you?"

Athos shook his head. "I thought about it once, long ago, but..." Anne had wanted to possess him fully. She had said they wouldn't be truly together until she took him while he was in heat. He had stopped taking bloodroot two days before she murdered Thomas. "I don't know what will happen, gentlemen. I'm sorry. If I feel..." he trailed off. He didn't know what the signs were, either, not past what one read in novels. He felt like as stranger in his own body. "Perhaps you'll smell it first. Tell me, and I'll take care of it."

"How?" Porthos demanded. "By throwing yourself in the river?" When Athos didn't say anything, he threw his hands in the air and would have turned away if Aramis hadn't taken hold of the edge of his shirt. "You've got to come up with a better solution then that!"

"I'd be delighted to hear one," Athos told him. "For now, let us hope that there is no need."

Again that exchanged look, the one that said so much, and that had used to include Athos. He couldn't read it now, but when it was over, Porthos shrugged and Aramis said, "Good enough."

"Was that all?" The tension growing in Athos' belly told him he needed to get away, to put space between him and this pair of hostile alphas. He thought longingly of the far side of the island and the sound of riffling water.

"We think you should tell Treville," Aramis said.

Athos nodded. Shamefully, he'd been hoping that they'd insist on it themselves, sparing him a repetition of that disgraceful confession. They were right, however; he owed it to Treville to tell him himself.

"We thought you could write him a letter," Aramis continued. "You wouldn't have to go into camp like this. We could take it to him, and..." He trailed off, presumably not wanting to say, _And you could wait for the Captain to come out of the camp and personally strangle you._ The letter was a good idea, at least, then no one could accuse him of trying to seduce the Captain with his scent. It would also spare Treville and company the shame of a public revelation. That was probably why Porthos and Aramis had thought of it.

"All right," he agreed, which for some reason earned him a sharp look from Porthos. "Was there anything else?"

"I really hate this," Porthos muttered. He pulled free of Aramis and stomped off to follow Athos' path around the island.

"I think that was all," Aramis said hastily, then tore off after Porthos. When he caught up, he rest a hand on his arm, but followed silently until they were both out of sight.

Athos watched them go, then turned to the camp, looking for anything he might dismantle into a raft. He'd changed his mind. The sooner this was over with, the better.

* * *

The raft came together as most of the cart, the planks from the lean-to and several tree branches, all bound with rope braided from the canvas, Aramis' cloak and his and Porthos' shirts. Athos had offered his shirt as well, but Porthos had insisted that he wear as much clothing as possible at all times. The comment initially stung; however, given how short a time their worthy craft lasted on contact with the river, Athos swam away glad he'd kept his shirt.

"When I have become old and grey," he said, catching Aramis' arm as it reached down over the bank, cut steep by the flood. "And am surrounded by my whelps, and my knees are ruined from years of submission to an alpha who cares not for me," He kicked and scrambled until Aramis hauled him to shore. Porthos lay nearby, coughing up water, but unharmed. "I will turn, in my dotage, to writing novels. _The Comical History of Two Musketeers_ , in seven volumes, and chapter fourteen shall contain the misbegotten adventure of the river raft."

"I thought it went well," Aramis countered. Athos raised an eyebrow, and he added. "We ended up on the right side of the river."

Athos decided that was close enough not to make it worth arguing the point.

Porthos got up and pulled them both to their feet alongside him. He held onto Athos for longer than needed, his dark eyes serious. "That's not what's going to happen to you," he said roughly.

Lifting one shoulder in a slight shrug, Athos admitted. "You're quite correct. I likely won't have time for novels." He yanked his arm free and turned to start down the road. It felt unkind to say, but he was tired of pretending.

"Let him be," he heard Aramis say, and was glad when Porthos seemed to comply.

The flood had swept clean most of the mud, but unfortunately it had also taken large sections of the road itself. Including a stop at a beleaguered church where Aramis claimed pen, paper and ink on the King's business, it took them until well past twilight to come in sight of the fires of the King's camp.

Athos sighed tiredly as Porthos sequestered him behind a low wall on the hilltop across from the camp. 

"Maybe you shouldn't tell the Captain after all," he said. Disconcertingly, he'd pitched his voice for Athos' ears alone. "Maybe–"

He stilled when Athos put a finger to his lips. It was kind of him to want to spare him the trouble, but Athos would not have Porthos take it on himself; the letter formed enough of a barrier. "No, you were right. My duty is clear."

Porthos pressed Athos' hand with both of his, and, startlingly, brought it to his lips. "We'll be back as soon as we can," he promised, then vanished into the growing darkness.

Athos set his back to the crumbling wall and pulled his knees to his chest. He wonder how strong his scent had actually gotten. Could he have accidentally seduced his friend? The thought made him feel vaguely ill, and he hoped that Porthos wouldn't hate him too much for it when his thoughts cleared. He would not have their last memories of each other so tainted, though he realised that that might not be avoidable.

The others seemed to be gone a long time. Athos traced their route in his mind: picking their way down the hill and across to the King's encampment, past the sentry, finding Treville, making a report, time to read the letter, and, then, how long before they returned? He watched Venus sink to the horizon as full dark came, and tried to imagine what Treville must be saying.

Yet, when he finally heard the sound of horses and saw the flickering of lamps from down the road, it seemed too soon. He had not, he found, adequately prepared himself. No matter that he'd promised himself that he'd face his last few moments as a Musketeer in a manner befitting the King's service, still he had to clutch the wall as he rose, and found himself shaking from more than the cold.

When he saw who rode the lead horse, he was glad of the support. It was worse then he'd imagined. Treville had not come, nor had he sent his men.

"M. Athos," Cardinal Richelieu said, "Back from the dead again, I see. Good. I have need of a man of your talents."

That had not been what Athos was expecting to hear.

* * *

The Cardinal had told him that the camp's walls had ears, and that he King needed him, and then given him a voluminous cloak and rode with him to an inn a half a league inland. The innkeeper did not question the Cardinal and half a dozen Red Guards secreting away an omega, which went to prove the innkeeper was an intelligent man. He gave them a private parlour, and mostly averted his eyes.

Athos took the chair nearest the fire, and kept the cloak pulled around him as the maid fussed with adding more logs and lighting more candles. "Captain Treville will be looking for me," he said when she was gone. It was more an observation than spoken out of any hope that the Captain would object to his disappearance. It would probably come as a relief.

"He knows where you are." Richelieu didn't sit but paced over to the window and stared at the darkness beyond. Though he seemed to focus more on the reflection of the room. "Generally speaking. The King sent the good Captain a letter informing him that he had special command of your services. His Majesty had a copy made for you as well."

"I do not doubt your word, Your Eminence" Athos said. He certainly wouldn't admit to it if he did. He wished that he could read something out of the Cardinal's posture, or the segmented reflection of his face, but Richelieu remained inscrutable. "What do you require of me?"

"The Queen requires a tutor in the language and customs of England."

"What?" said Athos, then. "My apologies, Your Eminence, but you astonish me."

The Cardinal continued, seeming not to notice that Athos had said anything at all. "I understand that in you spent much of your youth in London, and were familiar at the court of King James." He did not stoop to adding, _were you not, Comte de la Fère?_ but he hardly needed to.

The faintest puff of a sigh escaped Athos' lips before he pressed them closed. That, at least, he had expected. The Cardinal could hardly have failed to investigate his background after the incident on the King's hunt. "I had occasion to attend court; it was no great matter to gain admission in those days. I joined King James' hunting party once, though I was still too young for him to pay me much heed." He'd been fourteen, staying with his mother's relatives on the real first trial of his cover. Three years of fooling the English, and his mother had decided it was safe enough to try something closer to home. He had joined the army on his return.

The Cardinal nodded as if he knew all that, which, undoubtedly, he did. "You will live at the palace and attend on Her Majesty. Her household will provide clothes befitting your status, and, I believe, some manner of salary. Do you understand?"

Athos hardly knew what question to ask first, or what would be prudent to ask. These past few days he'd felt as though he were on the deck of a ship that had been overtaken by a tempest. Every step he took, he expecting solid deck underfoot and found nothing but air. Thus, he stumbled on, perpetually caught at the edge of drowning.

"This is truly the King's wish?" he asked eventually.

"As I've told you." The Cardinal waved his right hand in a small circle, conveying weeks of irritation and debate. "His sister, Henriette Marie, claims to be struggling with the language of her subjects, and Her Majesty offered to help. Kind of her, no doubt, but she herself does not speak a word, and thus finds herself in need of a tutor. In a word: You."

_Why_ the Spanish Queen of France had wanted to learn English had not even made it on Athos' list of questions. He tried again, "And the King is aware of my history?"

"He believes that you are particularly well suited because of it."

That ground testing soft, Athos attempted to switch approaches. "What of my commission? Has Treville released me?" He had offered his resignation in the letter, were Treville not interested in going to the trouble expelling him, but he didn't even know if it had found its recipient.

The Cardinal turned, his cloak swirling around him, and took a step toward Athos. He was a tall man, made taller by solid boots and a fearsome reputation. "I believe your commission states that you serve His Majesty's pleasure, not Captain Treville's. Now, will you take the job or will you not?"

The job was ridiculous. Everything about this meeting was ridiculous. The Cardinal was putting him to some kind of test, but Athos did not know what it was, what purpose it served, or what might be required to acquit himself of it.

He tried to weigh his options, one against another. To live at court openly as an omega, where someone was bound to recognise him, though what consequence that might have he could not say. The Queen's household had several omega men in it, and he could never return to the Musketeers in any case. The commission they'd spoken of carried no weight of law behind it. Cousin Antoine would have had to accept it on his behalf, and no omega could bear arms in any case, not even in the King's service. If he accepted, he would have a profession, if not an interesting one, and it would spare Antoine the burden of his care, at least for a little while.

If he didn't end up dead in a ditch upon declining, he would still have to face Treville, near certain expulsion from the Musketeers, and everything that followed. He had spent these last days accustoming himself to the idea, or he thought he had, but now faced with the possibility of another option, it seemed as abhorrent as it first had.

But the Cardinal was testing him. He was here asking Athos to do something, with no Captain or King, and Athos didn't trust it one inch.

"Well?" the Cardinal prodded.

"As you say, I am at His Majesty's service, as are we all." Athos rose to his feet, pushing back the hood of his cloak. "I would ask, however, permission to write a letter to one of my comrades, and to receive a reply."

"To what purpose?"

"They left an omega alone by a roadside; when they return and find me gone..." He trailed off. In all honesty, they'd probably assume he'd broken his word and run away. "They may not listen to Treville. You know what alphas are like."

The Cardinal's grimace indicated that he knew exactly how many kinds of hell a pair of unbound alphas could raise. "Very well."

Athos bowed slightly in thinks. "I will ask the innkeeper for pen and paper. I assume I am to leave for Paris at first light."

"You do. I will leave a guard here. They will conduct your letters, and return you to Paris in the morning." Athos expected him to leave then, but he paused before the door. Something long and gleaming dropped out of his sleeve into his hand: a narrow dagger in the Italian style, favoured for assassinations. Athos backed up a step, reaching for a cushion with which to catch the blade, but the Cardinal simply set it on the mantle, laid its sheath beside it, and said mildly, "I believe I should also mention that the King has been receiving certain threats against Her Majesty's life. There may be agents in her household." Then he left.

The stiletto glistened in the candle light. Athos stared at it for a moment before taking it up gingerly. It appeared lethally sharp, and would be easily concealed under the loose clothing of an omega, if only such weapons were allowed. No omega men could take up arms, even in the King's name. Richelieu had to know it; he was even on his way to outmoding sharpened tableware. An English teacher, however, with an omega's access to the Queen, might conceal a dagger for her protection. He'd catch the block if he were caught, but unchecked he might be of some great service.

* * *

> Porthos du Vallon  
>  King's Musketeers
> 
> Sir,—As Captain Treville has no doubt told you, I have the honour of receiving a position in the Queen's household. Not perhaps the fulfilment of every boy's dreams, but better than I ~~deserve~~ could have hoped. You were right, as you so often are. ~~I would that I had your faith, my friend.~~
> 
> I regret that my haste does not permit a personal farewell. There is much left unsaid between us, but perhaps that is for the best. Please know that I never intended to make protectors out of you or Aramis. ~~In my heart~~ I thought to stand shoulder to shoulder with the company. ~~I thought I had~~ If I ever failed either of you in that regard, you have my profound apologies. For the years my deception, there can be no words. You merit stands greater than my poor efforts, or my regrets.
> 
> I beg you to take care of Aramis, and of yourself. ~~I wish~~ ~~I hope~~ If at all possible, please spare a few lines so that I may know that you have received this letter. You need not trouble yourself with my affairs beyond that ~~, though if you would write~~. —I am,  &c
> 
> Athos  
>  ~~King's~~ Red Lantern Inn

  
Athos had meant to make a fair copy, but the Red Guard watching him write looked impatient enough that he worried that a second letter would not be delivered. He did not bather with any kind of seal, as it would only waste time when the Cardinal broke it open to read.

The last task to sever three years of friendship performed, Athos retired to his room. He slept lightly, with the stiletto tucked under his pillow, and woke just before the dawn.

The guards were just starting to stir, and with no possessions beyond the clothes on his back and two illegal weapons, he had few preparations to make. The innkeeper provided cold meats and bread to start the day, but had no letter from the company's camp.

Athos found himself unable to smother his disappointment. He had not expected a page close-packed with understanding and absolution, nor, from Porthos, much more than a hastily scrawled _Got letter. All well here. Ride safe_ , but now, left with nothing, he wondered which eventuality was worse. Porthos either had received his letter and was still too angry to reply, or the letter had not left the Cardinal's hands, and Porthos thought him a deserter on top of all the rest.

The day dawned as fair as the last, and Athos knew that the King would likely press south as soon as he could. With Athos going the opposite direction, they would soon put weeks between them, if letters made it through at all. He tried to imagine sitting in the palace knowing full well that his friends rode into battle without him at their sides, waiting for paltry, dated news to trickle in. It was little wonder that, confined to such a life, so many queens took to drink, gambling and dissipation.

He wrapped his cloak tight against the chill of the morning and went to the stables to see what the Cardinal had spared for him. A gelding of middling quality, he discovered, but the ostler told him it had surprising breath. He was watching the stable boy kick the air out and tighten girth when his pair of Red Guards emerged, betas both, and still half asleep. Athos had not learned their names the previous evening, and stubbornly did not intend to, no matter that they were four days ride from the capital. He didn't plan to say a word.

Catching sight of Athos, the older of the guards' eyes widened and he abruptly patted his jacket. "This came for you, Monsieur," he said, and held out a folded sheet of paper. "Last night, after you retired."

Athos forced his hands not to shake as he took the letter, and turned away to put his body between the Red Guard and whatever he might find on the page. At a glance, he recognised Porthos' careful scrawl, and more of it than he expected.

> Athos  
>  Red Lantern Inn
> 
> Captain spitting nails, and Aramis and me mostly ducking. Braking camp tomorrow, so trying to equip after flood losses. Would be there if ~~I~~ we could. See you in Paris when we get back. Be careful.—Porthos
> 
> Aramis sends regards. Have told him you said I'm usually right.  
> 

  
With the greatest possible care, Athos refolded the paper and tucked it next to his heart. 


	6. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. 1628.

Every step of every league all the way from the King's camp to Paris and beyond to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where the Queen had taken herself for the duration of campaign season, Athos regretted his decision. He should, he realised, have gone into camp with the others and faced Treville personally. He should have told the Cardinal to go to the Devil, and waited for Porthos and Aramis to return with word. Then at least he'd have the clarity for which he longed, instead of separation and assumptions. He tried telling himself that it allowed a possibility of hope, and kept Porthos' letter pressed close to his heart, but the truth was that he knew nothing. There was no honesty here, and none of the responsibility he'd promised. Instead he felt his life spinning away, and without his friends to hold onto, all that remained was the dagger on his arm and the letter in his pocket.

Five days after he left, the Queen herself greeted him, saying first, with unsettling sincerity, "Oh, M. des Jardins, I'm so glad you've come," and second, "We _must_ find you something to wear!"

Not half an hour later, Athos found himself in a small chamber next to the Queen's, gazing at himself as an omega for the first time. It was stranger than he could have imagined. The Queen had a found a barber to shave him and attempt to curl his hair, then given him the flowing trousers, tunic and swoop-sleeved jacket of a courtly omega. Soft greys picked out a broad herringbone patten, with ivory lace atop – the colours of a non-entity. He could barely see his legs under the layers of satin and lace. He made an experimental lung and found that at least the clothes moved easily with his body, but he still looked so strange. He didn't see a soldier when he looked in the mirror, and had to search his eyes to see himself at all.

"This is who you are, now," he told the reflection, but from his expression his mirror-self didn't believe him either. Aramis would have laughed. Athos hoped he would have laughed, at least. It was possible that he would have turned away in disgust as he had before, or, worse, stepped forward. He would know if only he'd waited to find out the answer. That might well never happen now, no matter how many promises of eventual reunion Porthos wrote. It had not been a kind thing to give a man hope and then march in the opposite direction.

Experimentally, Athos sank to his knees, submitting to his own reflection, which submitted in turn. That too felt easier in these clothes, no pull or bite of leather as he knelt. He glanced up through his lashes, chancing to meet his own eyes.

He remembered the strength he'd found in submission before, first with Anne, letting her take him night after night and finding only the sweetest release, then, for those few moments, on the island. The others had not accepted what he offered, but the ease with which he'd knelt, the clarity it brought, had burned through him. Now he felt nothing. He looked weary, he thought, and weary and old.

Seeing himself like this, he had to wonder how much use the King expected him to be. Then, he supposed, that was the point, a burned-out omega just hanging onto court life by his fingernails. They could find him in Her Majesty's bedroom and no one would suspect a thing. He only hoped that his reflection did not show the truth of the man he'd become.

He should have stayed at the camp. He felt even more sure of that seeing himself so reflected. Their rejection of his offer, then his abandonment of his company, seemed to have broken something in him, something he was only realising now. It felt like a hunger, or a feeling of space where he'd expected solidity. He wondered if losing a foot might create the same sensations.

Sighing, Athos pushed himself first off one knee then the other, picked up a sweeping blue hat stuffed with grey feathers, and went in search of the Queen.

He found her on the broad terraces leading down to the river, watching the the last orange sunlight slide up the opposite hill. Fountains splashed around them, cooling the already shadowed gardens. A lady in waiting, one of the Queen's ever-diminishing Spanish court hovered nearby. Athos supposed he would learn all their names in short order, but now he bowed until the Queen bade him sit beside her. The little gilt chair creaked uneasily as he settled in it.

She gestured her lady away, and waited some time before speaking. Athos realised that with the open plan of the garden, no one could come within hearing distance without being seen, especially hearing of Anne's naturally soft voice, through the fan which she fluttered in front of her face. A pair of Musketeers patrolled the edge of the river, their cloaks brilliant against the dark water.

"I'm so glad you've come," she said again. "I've felt sick with worry since I started to get those letters." The Cardinal had neglected to mention letters, but Athos maintained a neutral expression and nodded sympathetically. "I would burn the filthy things but Louis says the Cardinal needs to so them. Evidence, he says. That man!" Athos wasn't sure if she meant her husband or Richelieu. He sincerely hoped the latter, or France never _would_ have an heir. "I've kept a few to show you. You're a Musketeer, are you not? I've seen you with Captain Treville. I hope that you are of more use than that awful woman the Cardinal tried to make my bedfellow."

Athos came to the horrible realisation that the Queen was so frightened that she was chattering in effort to suppress her tears. With any other woman, or omega, he would have put an arm around her shoulders and let her. Truth be told, he could have used the comfort of a touch himself. He'd grown so used to the constant cuffs and pats and other easy contact between himself and the other Musketeers that the loss of them this past week made him feel as though he were caught in a blizzard without a cloak. The eyes of the château were on them, however, and he pulled his hand back even as he reached to cross the space between them. "I pledge you my service and my life, Your Majesty."

Astonishingly, the Queen took up his hand and pressed it warmly. "Thank you, Monsieur." Her skin felt warm and delicate against his, yet when he tried to pull away she held on with a grip of steel. "You forget yourself," she said, and he relaxed instantly. "An omega man may take the hand a beta woman with no one thinking it odd. Everyone knows how dearly omegas crave touch. I know it must be difficult, but you ought to do your best for the sake of your disguise."

"I..." Athos started, then shook his head. It had stung to be called a Musketeer, and now her words caught him off guard, as though she thought he was a soldier but wearing the mask of a tutor. "Your Majesty, I believe you have been misinformed. The truth is..."

The Queen touched the the edge of her fan to his lips, silencing him. "You pledged yourself to my service, Monsieur le Musketeer. That's all I need know." 

Their eyes met over the fan, and Athos nodded before she would lower it. He said, "My only concern is that I might not look the part." She still had not released his hand, but let it hang, joined with hers, between them.

"Had I myself not seen to the transformation, I should scarcely have known you. Most people, I have found, do not look past their noses." She looked at him with the knowing smile of a woman who had survived a dozen years in the French court, and more than that in Spain before it. The Queen patted his hand once more before rising to her feet. "Now, come and dine with me, and you may begin to teach me the language of that Protestant barbarian Louis' sister married."

"I am, as always, at your service," Athos swore, and he'd never meant anything more in his life. He didn't know why she'd gone out of her way to be kind to him, when surely she must realise the truth by now, but he could only be grateful for it. Someone, it seemed, could still look him in the eye and see a musketeer. If she could do so, who else? Himself? Captain Treville? He thought again that he should have stayed, but then grimaced, silently cursing himself for a fool.

Everyone who mattered knew the real story, and he could not recant now. The number of people required to turn from the law, both that of God and of France, had grown too great. Athos may not have seen it with his own eyes, but Porthos written that Treville was furious with him. Athos knew how stubbornly the Captain could stand by a grudge. The only two he'd seen to match his temper, once raised, were Aramis and Porthos. Athos did not think that their regard, once lost, was likely to be regained, and echoes of their accusations lived in his thoughts. _Delinquent omega, _Aramis had called him, and; _Omegas lie___ , Porthos had said, and then they'd left him on his knees, refusing his submission.

No, even if the King were to return him to the company by royal decree, Athos could not imagine that the others would take him in. They would have no use for him in their ranks, not now that they knew.

It was strange, how he'd come to the company all those years ago looking for a quick death in the King's service, with no thought of companionship, and how now he couldn't imagine returning without the regard of his companions. It would be best, he thought, to remain in the Queen's household for as long as she'd have him. Better to stay here alone than live with a constant reminder of what he'd once had. He had one of those around his neck already. He did not need another.

He followed Queen Anne up the terraces to the château, determined to keep his promise of service, whatever the cost. He'd forged a new life for himself before, albeit unintentionally at the time, and he could do it again.

And yet the thought remained: he should have stayed with the Musketeers.

* * *

When Athos returned to his chambers, late in the evening, he found they had been subtly but definitely searched. The room felt so slightly off that at first he thought he was imagining it, that the feeling of wrongness had somehow seeped from every other aspect of his life and – in his fatigue and inebriation – made itself manifest. As he looked closer, his English primers and pamphlets were just a hair more neatly aligned then when he last saw them. His cloak hung slightly askew, and, looking in his wardrobe, the dust had been cleaned from the bottom.

That made him think of a maid. It had been so long since he'd kept a household that he'd almost forgotten the omnipresence of servants. But why touch the shelf? Why not empty the chamberpot? Feeling paranoid, while simultaneously doubting his judgement, he unbuttoned the bottom of the mattress and felt through the feathers. He'd rescued his jacket and pauldron before one of the maids condemned his clothes to the flames – he still held faint hope of seeing his boots again – and tucked them deep in the bed.

He knew that he should have returned the Musketeers' emblem to Treville, and he'd meant to. The thought had simply become lost in the rush to leave the inn that first morning. Coming to his senses half a day on, but unwilling to trust such a thing to a Red Guard, he'd kept it in his saddlebags, thinking he'd find a way to return it once he arrived.

His questing fingers brushed the leathers, just where he'd left them. He pulled them out anyway, taking care to brush the feathers back into the mattress before he resealed it. Both needed oiling, and the coat had a tear at the hem. He would mend them in the morning, he thought. Overcome with exhaustion, he curled on top of the covers, arms wrapped around his old leather jacket and the emblem of his company.

* * *

Grey pre-dawn light crept into Athos' room, bringing with it nausea and a pounding head. The sensation felt so familiar that, for a few moments, he thought that he was back in his lodgings in Paris. The bed felt strange, however, and as he came to himself he remembered who and where he was now. The temptation to pull the blanket over his head and never emerge had never felt stronger.

The hangover also reminded him of those early days in the Musketeers, when only drink could overwhelm the loss of Anne. He hadn't cowered away then. He'd gotten up, washed his face, and done his duty to the best of his ability. That thought was enough to get him upright, dressed, through the barber's shaving, curling and perfuming, and into the Queen's rooms for breakfast. Duty, after all, was all he had left.

He had gotten a glance at the remaining letters the previous evening, but Athos wanted to look at them again. He felt that a sober viewing might make more sense of them. It did not.

The Queen shooed her ladies away and unfolded the letters across the table. The pair here were much the same as the rest, she said, half a dozen in all: simultaneously accusing her of infidelity and frigidity, emphasising her Spanish political connections and possible loyalties, and, finally, telling her to watch her back, all in the least flattering language possible. They were written in block capitals, with a hand the Queen claimed not to recognise, but in perfect French.

"And each one pinned to my pillow." She spoke Spanish now, and sounded more composed than the evening before, but Athos watched her fold her hands and pressed her lips to hide her feeling. "I don't understand how they got there. I've kept no maids in common between here and the Louvre, and still I find the letters, one every few days."

"One of your ladies?" Athos asked in the same language, but abandoned the inquiry on seeing her expression. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I understand how difficult this must be."

She reached across the little table and rested a hand on his elbow, making Athos shiver and yearn to sit at her feet. "No, Monsieur, it must be said. In truth, I have no ladies. The women who attend me are all the creatures of Louis or the Cardinal. They sent away everyone I thought loyal years since. I don't understand why any of these informers would care to harm their object."

Athos nodded. He did not follow the politics of court as he once had, but everyone knew of the dismissal of the Queen's Spanish household, save for those with strong French ties, and the replacement of her remaining favourites that had followed the loss of her second child. He could not see why, if the ladies were in his employ, the Cardinal should in one breath have them threaten the Queen, and with the other send a former Musketeer to investigate the danger. And why threaten her at all? If the Cardinal or King wished the Queen dead, it was within their power to assure her horse stumbled or her tasters missed a certain portion. Or it would have been were she not so forewarned. The entire affair felt wrong.

"I am not sure," he said carefully, uncertain if she counted him as a creature of the Cardinal; it seemed not, but she'd been at court a long time, "that whoever wrote these letters intends Your Majesty physical harm. They may be meant to upset or frighten you."

"I don't care." Their chairs clattered to the floor as Queen pushed to her feet and Athos followed. "I want them to stop. I want to be left alone."

"Your Majesty..." Athos began, then hesitated. She had half turned from him, and the low light of the early morning caught her profile, haloing her in wisps of hair and the strings of pearls trying to bind them. The light blinded him at the same moment a something in his chest lit with its own pure warmth. beta or no, he stumbled around the table to sink to his knees at her side. Her hand found his hair and stroked it as she might have caressed a favourite horse or a cat, and Athos pressed his face to her skirts. 

They stayed that way until her hands ceased their trembling and Athos' knees grew sore. An encompassing calm had settled on the room, and the only motion Athos noticed were motes of dust dancing in the sunbeams. Her fingers had stopped carding through his hair and now rested on the nape of his neck, and all Athos felt was contentment. 

At last, she squeezed his neck gently and said, "Come, my Musketeer, it's fine day. Go and change, and we will ride out in it."

He closed his eyes as she withdrew and listened to the swish of her skirts, her steps being too soft to hear. Even after the doors to her bedchamber closed, he continued to kneel. He drew one slow breath after another and focused on the steady beat of his heart until he felt like himself again. Only when he stood did it occur to him to wonder which was his true self: the Musketeer or the one who knelt at a woman's feet.

Unable to contemplate the question, he changed for their ride. An omega's riding clothes, it seemed, were much the same as his court clothes, only brown instead of grey, and the trousers being of a sturdy linen.

No longer having a horse of his own, the Queen's stables provided an amiable mare that, as Athos soon discovered, had a will of iron and a general objection to being ridden.

"Steady there, Monsieur," a familiar voice said just as Athos was contemplating forcing the beast's head down and leaping to its back in the confusion. "Please allow our assistance."

Athos turned slowly, keeping his eyes lowered, until two sets of leather boots and the edges of two azure cloaks crossed the edge of his vision: a pair of the Musketeers assigned to the Queen's guard. He tried to remember who had drawn the short straw to end up here rather than on campaign with the King. Though he knew the voice, he could not place it until he risked a glance at their faces.

It was Guiffrey who had spoken, an old hand, but not one he knew well. He'd struck Athos as as lacking in ambition as one could be while being an alpha and making it into the King's Musketeers. In the years Athos had served with him, Guiffrey had tended to avoid the battlefield, or any other action he could manage to escape, though he handled himself well enough when it came to it. His companion was new to the company, and had barely exchanged a word with Athos, though Aramis had claimed to have already nosed her out as another concealed beauty. Athos thought her name was Sainte-Marthe.

Athos waited for the least sign of recognition to cross their faces, but they remained blankly polite, curious at best. The Queen's words of the day before flitted across his thoughts: _Most people do not look past their noses._

If they thought he was an omega incapable of mounting an unruly horse, then Athos would play the part. He bowed. "I would be indebted, Messieurs. The groom appears to have abandoned me."

Sainte-Marthe took the hold of the harness while Guiffrey cradled his hands to form a step. Together they propelled Athos into the the mare, astride, thank Christ. When he'd determined that Athos was settled, Guiffrey patted his knee affectionately, saying, "There you are, M. des Jardins. All secure. She's not so bad once you're up there, eh?" Which was infuriatingly true. The mare did seem to have settled. It didn't make Athos feel less like smacking Guiffrey, however. Before he could completely dismiss the idea, Sainte-Marthe gave him the reins, and the both Musketeers alighted on their own mounts, and the riding party took shape.

The Queen looked sideways at Athos as he fell in half a head behind her; her eyes crinkled at the corners, but she didn't laugh. Athos was grateful for it.

They talked of nothing on the ride. Athos named things in English, and made a rough attempt at verbs, though one endeavoured without expectations of success, but did not challenge the Queen's escape.

They spent the morning in the parkland surrounding the château, and dined in a pavilion by the river. As they ate, Athos watched the ladies through his lashes, trying to see through them to intrigue, to a desire to harm, but they all seemed perfectly amiable. As friendly as his mare, he suspected, until one pressed them.

When they returned to the château, Athos found another letter pinned to the Queen's bed.

They had left Sainte-Marthe and Guiffrey at the grand entryway, which in itself made Athos' uneasy. He'd talked animatedly of M. Christopher Marlow to cover his entrance to first the queen's outer chambers then her bedroom out of precedence. The breach of manners had earned him a raised eyebrow from one of the ladies, but when he saw the folded scrap of paper stuck into the pillow, Athos was glad he'd done it.

He snatched up the letter, but too late, and even if she hadn't seen it, he imagined that his expression must have told the Queen all. She uttered a small cry of dismay before biting her lip.

Athos felt torn between the pull to comfort her, and an urge to rush out the door and attempt to chase down the ultimate source of her distress. The ladies surrounded her already, taking her hands and guiding her to a settee, so, lacking room to approach, Athos broke away. As he strode through the outer chambers, he tried to picture the layout of the château. They were on the grand hall already, but he'd just come up the main stair, and he'd seen a valet coming the other way. Finding and questioning the servant revealed that he had seen no one. In fact, the valet insisted, no stranger could have gone through the servant's passages unnoticed.

That left the more likely possibility that they had missed the note-leaver by some time, and the lesser chance of an additional entrance. The chambers had a small chapel adjoining, with an even smaller sacristy, but, unlike the Queen's chambers in the Louvre, this did not lead through to a secondary corridor. The windows, for the most part, did not open, and those that did sat high in the walls, making a difficult egress for anyone but a circus performer. Though he didn't entirely rule out an acrobat with a poison pen, Athos considered climbing out a second-floor window to be needlessly conspicuous.

Still, he was unable to believe that a château commissioned by Catherine de' Medici would only have one way in and out of the Queen's chambers. He turned in place, trying to fit the room into the larger shape of the castle, then gave up and circled back to the Queen. This kind of puzzle problem had always been of more interest to Porthos. He thought of asking Porthos, anticipating the way his scar would accent the furrows of his brow as he thought it through, until, several heartbeats later, Athos remembered that that was now impossible.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing into the bedchamber, "Forgive me for asking, but is there another way into these rooms, a hidden panel perhaps?" He realised too late that he'd sounded far too much like a Musketeer, and the ladies were staring at him as through he'd grown another head. He started to amend his presentation with, "I just wondered..." but the Queen shook her head.

"Behind the fresco of Leda and the Swan, but my mother in law had it bricked up ten years since," she said, then, "I wish to see it." Athos thought at first she meant the passage, but then comprehended her to mean the letter in his pocket. He would have hesitated but for the her firmness of voice. He produced the letter. She held it for a moment, looking at is as though it were something poisonous, then said with equal certitude, "I would read it alone."

Athos left while the ladies were still protesting. He thought he might make a discreet circuit of the château, possibly under pretence of taking a walk. He had little hope of finding anything of use, but could not think of a more practical alternative.

The pure overblown scale of the château and its gardens soon made Athos feel as though he were utterly wasting his time. One could hide a company in the topiary alone, and would need one to search it. He cut a wide birth around the kitchens and stables, but, on regaining the main entrance and finding nothing, started back down to the lower terraces towards the river. Perhaps his quarry had concealed himself in a garden shed, or had even left by water.

Athos saw a flash of blue there, and decided he might as well ask whoever was on duty if they had seen anything odd. He had probably already secured his reputation as the nosiest English tutor in the history of the French Court, so a few more questions could hardly harm his reputation.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," he said as he emerged from a rose-encrusted arbour, "But have you–" The Musketeer turned, and Athos stopped dead in his tracks, heart suddenly pounding.

"There you are," Aramis said lightly. "We've been looking all over for you. Porthos, here, I've found him!"


	7. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. 1628.

Porthos vaulted over the wall separating terrace from river, landing with the thud of leather on stone and a swirl of blue around him. Athos stared between him and Aramis, then realised his mouth was open and closed it.

"About time," Porthos snapped. "We've been looking for you since we got here."

"Which was not more than an hour ago," Aramis interceded. "Hardly any time at all considering we knew neither your name nor your position in the household. There was some disturbance at the château, and our friend here suggested we check the river in case you were about to throw yourself in."

"That's not what I said." Porthos pulled his jacket straight and crossed to stop in front of Athos, who still stood half shadowed by the arbour. He looked Athos up and down, from his heeled shoes to his broad hat and back again, then took his chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting his head back to see under the hat brim. Athos endured in silence, knowing very well what he looked like. Eventually, when he was done looking, a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh rolled up from Porthos' chest. "I don't like it," he said.

Athos twisted his head away, then tilted it back to look him right in the eye again. "I don't remember asking your opinion. What are you doing here?"

It was Aramis who answered, holding his place a little down the path so that Athos had to lean sideways to see him. "Treville's orders: we're to supplement the Queen's guard."

That made no sense. "The Captain sent his two finest soldiers to a backwater? In the middle of a campaign?"

Porthos shrugged while Aramis feigned indifference, saying, "After we lost all our equipment in the river, and you on top of it? He'd have sent us to Québec if he could."

Athos bit his lip. He had not considered that, the main target having absented himself, the Captain's wrath would fall on Porthos and Aramis as proxies. He wondered if Treville had thought they'd known all along, being as close to Athos as they had been. Whatever the detail, his folly seemed to have robbed his former friends of their chance at battlefield honours. No matter how much the sight of them lifted his heart, he found he couldn't be glad for that.

"I'm sorry to hear it, Messieurs," he said, then attempted to close the subject, continuing, "But, tell me, have you seen anything out of place since your arrival? There was an intruder in the Queen's chambers, and–"

"And you went running after him on your own," Porthos finished, looking even less impressed then he had before. "Unarmed."

Athos knew he should have explained that there wasn't much chance of real danger, and, in fact, he was armed, and he'd been expecting Musketeers to be around. What he said was, "I am quite capable of looking after myself."

Porthos snorted – a small dismissive sound, yet still it cut to the bone – and stepped away. It should have given Athos space to breathe, but instead he felt as though a cloud had passed in front of the sun.

"Are you really?" Aramis closed in, taking the final step forward when there wasn't a stride's worth of space between them. Their chests brushed, and Athos had to tilt his head to keep their hats from brushing. "And if the one you're after is an alpha, and he takes you by the throat and squeezes; if he forces you to your knees, knowing what you are and how to press you, you could look after yourself then?"

Aramis hadn't moved, his hands staying at his sides, but his words manifested into actions in Athos' mind, and he felt himself waver. He realised then that even in their early days together, when they'd been testing their new beta recruit, neither he nor Porthos had not brought their whole power against Athos. It felt like facing Treville when he was in an ice-hot rage. It felt like facing Anne.

Athos found that he had to steady himself on the arbour, and hated himself for that too.

"Aramis!" Porthos cried, alarmed. "Stop!" He'd stepped in and was pulling at Aramis' arm. Athos hadn't even seen him move. "You'll hurt him."

Aramis relented, letting Porthos drag him away. If the Inquisition had wrapped Athos' chest in bands of hot iron that burned and squeezed until he confessed to anything they asked of him, and only now released him into the spring air, he would not have felt more relieved. Worse that it wasn't the rack, for no man subjected to an inquisitor's touch would feel such a joyful urge to give in. Athos had to force himself to stand straight, bring his clothing to order, and not gasp for air like a landed trout. "Don't," was all he could say, but Porthos and Aramis took another step back. When he felt that he could speak without shaking, Athos asked in a conversational tone, "Tell me, did you do that because you wanted to prove a point, or because you wanted to claim me?"

"Or because he's a total ass," Porthos added, running his shoulder against Aramis with a little more force than usual.

One accusation or the other brought colour to Aramis' cheeks, and he glanced at his boots, but it didn't stop him saying, "Be realistic. You're not a soldier. You can't _be_ a soldier, not anymore."

"Aramis." Porthos used the same tone as he had with, _You'll hurt him_ : a warning not to damage a defenceless creature.

The single word felt tasted more bitter than the initial accusation, and Athos felt his mouth twisting as though he'd bitten a lemon. He took off his hat and held it to his chest, bowing slightly. "I thank you. I fear that I was completely unaware of my status until this very moment. It was kind of you to point it out."

Aramis opened his mouth, but Porthos elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to knock the breath out of him; then, as though he'd never made a violent act in his life, spread his hands conciliatingly. "Come back to the château. We'll talk over a drink."

They both started at Athos' huff of disbelief. "I can't be seen drinking with soldiers," he said. "I must consider my reputation, and how it might reflect on Her Majesty. Good day, Messieurs." He put his hat on and turned away.

"Athos, wait," Aramis implored, but Porthos said, "Let him be. He's right."

The burn of pride kept Athos' back straight and step firm all the way up the terraces and back through into the château to his room. There he stripped, splashed water on his face and chest, dried, redressed, and turned to the mirror to examine his hair.

He could not, he found, look himself in the eye.

Athos slumped forward, bracing against the wall and letting his head drop between his shoulders. "Sweet Christ," he muttered. That had been worse than he'd imagined it could be. He'd thought they'd hate him. He could have lived with them hating him – that he knew he'd earned – but this _concern_ felt too much to bear. Not two hours before, he'd thought of how much he missed Porthos, had ached to see him again. Now he'd see him and Aramis every day, and every day know that his former comrades thought of him in the same manner as Sainte-Marthe or Guiffrey did: another omega in need of protection. At least hatred implied some level of respect.

If he hadn't needed to return to the Queen, Athos would have raided the cellars and endeavoured to find out if there was enough wine in France to drown the memory of Porthos' derisive snort, or of Aramis forcing him to take even a small step back. As it was, he tucked his hat under his arm and returned to Her Majesty's chambers.

In the time since his departure, someone had set a guard on the Queen's door. Had Athos had the least martial authority, he'd have ordered the same the moment he arrived. The situation being what it was, he was glad that someone had finally thought of it. He took small satisfaction in the time they took to ensure that he was a welcome arrival, though they did not search him for weapons.

The Queen was alone in the chapel, not on her knees, but sitting and staring at the image of Christ Crucified that hung over the alter. She smiled as he bowed. "They leave me alone when I'm in here," she said, patting the chair beside her. "I do pray. Just..." One shoulder lifted then fell, and with it her whole body seemed to shrink into itself.

This time Athos did put an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He said, "I've heard that silent contemplation can be a kind of prayer."

"I would I had the discipline for meditation."

He stroked her hair and wished that he could sit at her feet. He thought she would allow it, but didn't know how to ask. "I have found it can require but little effort if one has a great deal of brandy." 

The Queen didn't laugh, but he felt her breath puff out and knew that her lips must be curling up, just a little. "And thus the cost of the monasteries."

She rested silently for a few minutes more, then straightened. He realised that she'd had the letter clutched in her hands this whole time. Athos raised an eyebrow, and she passed it to him. It was much the same as the others, though this dedicated a few lines to ensuring that her soul was in a state of grace before she slept, if that were still possible. He read it twice then folded it and tucked it into his jacket.

"You have a guard on your door," he said.

"Who may have been the ones to leave the letters."

"They may have done." Athos hesitated, thinking of the supposedly bricked-up passage that ended only the Lord knew where. "With your permission, Your Majesty, I will sleep in your outer chambers."

"You are very kind, Monsieur le Musketeer." She took his hand and pressed it between both of hers. "And what news of you? You seem pale."

"The light," Athos assured her. "If anything I'm choleric from having climbed from the river, and the frustration of having found nothing in doing so." He did not mention feeling near-overcome with a to kick the two men he'd once thought his best friends.

"Still," the Queen smiled kindly, and he understood the offer and took it while he could. When he'd settled at her feet, head resting on her knee, she laid a hand on his hair. "You're very brave," she told him, and he almost believed her. He knew if he stayed much longer, he'd credit anything she told him. The gentle glow of trust and comfort filled his chest, as it had long ago on fire-lit evenings with another woman named Anne, or more recently setting around a table breaking bread with his brothers in arms.

Aramis was wrong, he decided. It would not be like this with someone for whom he did not care. He would not submit to an enemy, no matter his true nature. The true desire to submit came only with trust. Or, he was honest enough to admit, with desire.

"Why do you trust me, Your Majesty?" he asked.

The Queen's hand clenched, her fingernails digging into his scalp. "What do you mean?"

"Cardinal Richelieu sent you me," he explained, though she had to know that already, "Like the guards and the ladies. You don't trust them, so why me?"

She didn't answer for a long time, and her thumb traced the shell of his ear as she considered her words. He had almost fallen asleep when she finally said, "I've seen you at court these past three years: Athos the Musketeer who would die for his King, and almost did. I saw you before that, too, as another soldier: the Comte de la Fère, distinguished in the service on the battlefield. Now I see you here: M. des Jardins, humble tutor and bodyguard to the Queen. If you sought riches or glory, you might have earned them long since and added to your titles. If it were escape you desired, you could have left for England, or Spain, or the New World. Instead you've stayed, and you've served France. No matter how many times your name and uniform has changed, your loyalty has not."

Her words left Athos momentarily breathless, but he managed to say, "And what if I think as your epistler does? That your interests diverge from those my country. My patriotism would not serve you then."

"Then I will have had the pleasure of your company in the meanwhile," she said easily, providing no answer at all, but clearly signalling that she wished to leave the discussion be. Athos wondered if she had a reason at all, or if she had, in extremis, irrationally clung to a friendly face.

It did not occur to him until after they'd risen and gone down to dine – after he'd spent an hour not looking at Porthos and Aramis as they stood like statues by the door – that he might be the one in extremis, and the Queen the friendly face that he should not trust so easily.

* * *

They were just finishing their flavoured ices, when the Queen said to her ladies. "Let us go down to the gardens. Perhaps M. des Jardins will read to us."

"In English, Your Majesty?" Athos asked, his mind running over the small collection of books the Cardinal had provided.

"Gracious, no. We'd hardly understand a word. I'll have a girl fetch something from the library."

Athos inclined his head, and stood when she did. They had dined with the some dozen ladies and two or three gentlemen who seemed to circle around the Queen, mostly betas, a handful omegas – these included all the men – never an alpha of any gender. The court felt all wrong. Even with so many away with the King and Cardinal, even down river from the Capital, when the weather had been bad, Queen Anne on her own should have had enough draw to pull in more people than this. It seemed as through the well were tainted, and everyone knew it, leaving only the Cardinal's creatures and their pray. Just being in the château was starting to make Athos' skin crawl.

He passed through the doors at the back of the group, looking neither left nor right as he passed between Porthos and Aramis. He'd decided that pretending that Olivier des Jardins had never seen a Musketeer before in his life might make surviving their constant presence easier. As of an hour's effort, it wasn't really helping, but he hoped it that someday it could. He assumed that would be the same day as Urban VIII became a devote Calvinist.

That plan came to dust, in any case, when Porthos said, "Monsieur, you've dropped your handkerchief," and Aramis smothered a snicker.

Silently vowing to punch them both next time he had them alone, Athos turned and took the neatly folded square of silk that looked suspiciously like it _was_ his handkerchief. When Porthos had had time to pick his pocket he did not know, but the crinkle of paper inside the cloth confirmed his suspicions as to the reason behind the endeavour. Keeping his eyes lowered, he murmured thanks and hurried after the Queen. Athos found a place in the middle of the group, where he didn't have to worry about certain Musketeers treading on his heels.

Athos considered accidentally dropping whatever was in the handkerchief into the fountain, but knew that the communique would likely be re-presented in an even less subtle fashion, were that possible, until it was accepted. Instead he settled on in a central chair and accepted a book from the Queen's maid. Only when he'd opened it upon his knee to Virgil's first eclogae did he slide the message free and read its single line of determined printing.

_We need to talk. Just you & me. Where & when you like. Please.—P._

Turning the page to cover the note, as if he'd started in the wrong place, he went on to read the second eclogae in a clear voice. When he finished that, he read the fourth, sixth and tenth as well, and several passages of the courtship of Dido and Æneas, before claiming that his voice and his Latin were at an end for the afternoon. He knew that Porthos, standing watch somewhere behind him, had to be near dead from boredom. He had once confessed to Athos that, in an effort to stay alert at times like these, he would imagine the château under attack by pirates or wolves or Huguenots, and then mentally enact the defence and resulting death toll.

Yet when Athos' let his eyes slide past the guard, Porthos was staring at him like he'd been devouring every word, whether he understood them or not. Their gazes did not meet, but Athos shivered nonetheless. Behind the mask of blank professionalism, lay slightly narrowed eyes and a set jaw that made Athos wonder what, exactly, Porthos wished to discuss.

He surrendered his chair to one of the ladies, who took up a lute, and sat near the Queen, thinking hard. He still had the book, with its single sheet of paper hidden near the beginning, and, as the third song came to an end, he said, "Your Majesty, you had mentioned that I might examine your library. Perhaps now might be a good time?"

The Queen looked at him curiously but nodded. As Athos left the garden, he caught Aramis' gaze then looked at the Queen and narrowed his eyes. He didn't mouth, _watch her,_ but Aramis rolled his eyes, so he assumed that the message was clear.

He _had_ actually been in the library before, but long ago, before his father's death, when he was just another young nobleman sent to court in search of a commission. His memory of it was dim, and he expected the contents had changed, but he recalled a greater order to the place under Marie de' Medici. After some searching, he found, in English: _Arcadia_ , _Tamburlaine the Great_ Part II, with no first half in evidence, _Othello_ , and, appallingly, a Protestant Bible.

"Thinking of converting?" How a man of Porthos' size, and one so heavily armed, could move utterly silently Athos would never know.

"You took your time," Athos said. He shoved the Bible to the in a back corner of the highest shelf he could reach.

"Had to wait for the guard to change; your reputation and all." He said it in a tone which, though he probably meant to be light, was unable to rise above the anger that had simmered under the surface since Athos had first fallen to his knees in front of him. Instead, he sounded resentful.

"'Oh, Monsieur, you have dropped your handkerchief,'" Athos mimicked, letting the obviousness of the ploy have its own voice.

Porthos shrugged unrepentantly, but his expression was sombre. "Listen, I didn't come looking for a fight."

"Why then?"

Porthos took a long breath, then let it out, and Athos could almost see him arraying his thoughts until they lined up like chess pieces. "I'm sorry about Aramis. I don't know what got into him, and once I kick him a few more times, he'll say it himself."

That Porthos considered an apology for the pressure in the gardens his first priority did something to warm Athos' heart, or would have could he decide if this were a sop or an honest attempt at amends. "And?" he said, probing as one prods a bruise to see if it still hurts.

"Treville put me in charge of the guard here."

That had been Athos' role, of late, despite Porthos having been with the Musketeers longer. "Congratulations," he said, and meant it. He'd never wanted command, despite Treville's insistence that he was suited for it.

Porthos fold his arms and drew in a breath that seemed to make him expand in all directions. "So I'd like to know what the _hell_ is going on."

"Ah." So the apology had been a sop, something to ease the way for the demand that followed. He set the stack of books on a table and crossed his arms in mirror of Porthos' position. "Perhaps you had better say what you mean."

"Right, like you don't know." He scrubbed a hand over his beard, knocking the tips of his moustache into disarray. "The Cardinal pulled you up here to be an 'English tutor,' then when we requested the duty, Treville sent us up as supplements, not replacements. When we got here, the place looked abandoned. It feels like a crypt, not a court, so why the increased guard? What intruder? Who were you running around after this morning? And why won't anyone tell me anything?" He was keeping his voice low so that no one in the hallway could overhear, but Athos heard it as a shout.

He rolled forward on the balls of his feet, pushing towards Porthos a bit to keep himself from stepping back against the shelves. Without the leather armour of his uniform, resisting his impulses had proved more difficult than he would have imagined, but he thought he was getting a hold on it at last. He meant to hold his thoughts as well as his ground, but in trying to order his answers, one description caught his attention. "Aramis said– You asked for this assignment?"

"Of course we did!" Porthos snapped. "Did you think we'd to let the Cardinal sweep you off into God knows what, with no weapons and no backup?" When Athos didn't answer – not knowing a way to tell him that that was exactly what he'd thought – Porthos hissed through his teeth and kicked the edge of a shelf. "You've had us worried sick."

"I'm not bound to you," Athos reminded him, though in truth the words warmed him at the same time they frustrated him. "You need not trouble yourself for my sake."

Porthos was looking at him like he wanted to wring his neck, a feeling with which Athos could empathise, but all he said was, "Not bound, no, but responsible." He paused, frowning, but continued before Athos could protest that he wasn't that either, "Which reminds me..." Reaching behind him, he unfastened his parrying dagger, sheath and all, and held it out to Athos. "You should have this."

Athos stared. The dagger was obviously new and of fine quality. How Porthos could afford it after losing everything in the flood, let alone how he could afford to give it away, was beyond Athos. "That, Monsieur, is illegal," he said, not touching it.

"Do I look like I care?"

On studying his face, Athos concluded that he did not. Instead of answering, he pulled back his sleeve, revealing the Cardinal's stiletto, then turned and lifted his jacket to make visible his own dagger concealed underneath.

Porthos lips pursed in a silent whistle. "I guess you don't care either. Christ, if anyone catches you...."

"And if they caught you offering?"

"They'd string us both up in a heartbeat."

"Well then, you'd better put that away."

"I hate this," Porthos muttered, but he refastened the sheath. 

"I'm not enamoured of it myself," Athos said flatly.

"Oh. I thought you might be." He'd folded his arms again, and, all at once, looked uncertain.

Athos couldn't think of anything to say to that that was not in the line of, _Go fuck the Virgin Mary,_ so he picked up his books and started to leave.

Porthos put a hand on his shoulder, holding him fast. "Athos, the Queen. I can't protect her if I don't know what's going on."

As much as he wanted twist free and escape – or to fall to the floor and press his face against Porthos' hip as he had with the Queen – Porthos was right. "Not here," Athos said. "Come to the Queen's chambers later. In the meantime, read this." He produced the latest letter, which Porthos took without comment. "I must go."

He tried to pull away, but Porthos held him for a moment longer studying him, his expression indecipherable. He looked as though he might say something, but then shook his head, and released Athos. "Later," he said, and Athos nodded and fled the library.

He had been selfish, he realised, in his desire to avoid the others. Porthos had the nobler character for understanding that they both need put duty before personal concerns. In his own way, he'd tried to make amends, and Athos ought to have allowed it. The most galling part of the whole conversation was that Aramis had been right: Athos probably did need their help, and they'd acted correctly in assuming that and rushing to his aid. He didn't understand why they'd given up a chance at honour and ransoms for the sake of a delinquent omega, but here they were, and if they were to to protect the Queen, Athos would need to figure out on what terms they were willing to work with him, and do his best to comply, pride be damned.

When he returned to his room, he set the books on the shelf next to the collection the Cardinal had supplied, and turned to the bed. He knew that he shouldn't take it apart again, someone was bound to notice, but he couldn't resist the pull. He had not yet had time to care for the pauldron and jacket, so he did it now, cleaning them and rubbing oil deep into the leather. The smell comforted him, and his hands moved through the familiar motions almost of their own accord. He should give them to Porthos, he knew, but not yet. He would hold onto them for a little longer. Any kind of self-examination led to the conclusion that he could not reasonably justify this, but Athos didn't care. 

He could see the terraces from his window, Sainte-Marthe and Guiffrey now stood guard over the little gathering, their cloaks brilliant in the last of the afternoon sun. Another flash of blue lay pooled behind a hedge, and Athos realised that Aramis was apparently napping in the grass, hat over his face, out of sight but within earshot of the Queen. Porthos descended from the château, and found him after a moment's search through the topiary. He nudged Aramis' shin with his boot, and Athos judged from the alacrity with which he sat up that he hadn't been sleeping at all.

Porthos crouched and said something, and Aramis replied, nodding. That made Porthos punch him in the arm, but Aramis only laughed and pressed his hat to his heart. The sight of their easy comradeship made Athos' chest ache. While his conversation with Porthos had given him some hope that the Musketeers might be able to see him as an ally, he knew that they could never have that freedom of touch again, not between alpha and omega.

He would have to meet them soon, he realised, as the Queen had risen and was starting back to the château.

* * *

Athos intercepted the Queen outside her chambers, though this time her guards swept the room before she entered. He didn't have time to relate his conversation with Porthos when the man himself arrived, Aramis in tow. Then they had to make their bows, and the Queen sent for a lady in waiting to chaperone the alpha men. The shadow of the château had again crept to the top of the far hill, by the time they settled in a close circle in her sitting room, the Queen's lady attending to her sowing on the far side of the room.

"Your Majesty, can you trust her?" Athos asked.

The Queen's lips pressed into a grimace. "No, but her hearing is not what it once was; we're free to talk. The better question is can I trust these?"

Aramis and Porthos were sitting shoulder to shoulder on a settee, while Athos sat across from them, next to the Queen. They exchanged a glance, then looked at Athos, who said, "I would put my life in their hands, and have done so many times."

Something about her lips changed and the sourness turned into a wry smile. "And my life?"

"Your life as well, Your Majesty," Athos assured her, not daring to look at either of them as he said it.

"And so it shall. Now, Messieurs, I will unfold these past few weeks before you. I pray that you will make better sense of it than I have thus far."

By the time she finished her outline of events, Aramis was chewing the corner of his moustaches and Porthos had a face like a thundercloud. Part way through the recital, he'd passed the letter to Aramis, who had muttered something under his breath that made him cross himself.

"And you have no idea who'd behind this?" Aramis asked.

"Clearly."

Aramis held up a hand to both ward off a blow and offer his surrender without terms.

The Queen, seemingly felled by that old half smile and false submission, relented, expanding, "Your country has provided me with a great many enemies, and no friends of any rank. Louis would support me, of course, but he is weeks away and may not return until the autumn."

"Do you think the threats are real?" Porthos asked, and they were off again.

Athos leaned back a little, watching as they they tilled ground he and the Queen had already exhausted. Still, the parable of the sower came to mind: who could know where a seed might take root? It felt strange to sit at the Queen's side facing his friends, and stranger still every time he felt a pause that was usually his cue, only for one or the other of the Musketeers to pick it up. He only realised that he'd let his mind drift when he looked up and saw Porthos watching him with that damnable concern.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"You've been pretty quiet," Porthos commented.

Athos shrugged. "Simply allowing you time to catch up."

"Then what would you have us do next?" Aramis asked in a tone that stopped just short of challenging.

"I find it curious," the Queen noted, just as Athos was about to tell Aramis exactly what he thought he should do next, "That men once heralded as 'Inseparables' should find themselves so far apart." They ducked their heads, and she carried on serenely, "Were anyone to ask what _I_ felt our next actions might be, I might suggest investigating the secret passage in my bedchamber."

A brief silence followed. "You, uh, hadn't mentioned that, Your Majesty." Porthos said. Athos wouldn't go so far as to describe his expression as contrite, but he'd definitely been set back a pace.

The Queen glided into her inner chambers leaving the rest to follow. Once there, she crossed to the head of the bed, leaving the others and the suddenly interested lady in waiting hovering at the door. The lady only retreated when the Queen narrowed her eyes and tilted her head towards the outer rooms. Only when the potential spy was out of sight did she go to the massive wooden panels that rose up from the bed-frame almost to the ceiling. She had to stand on her toes on the pillows to reach the top edge. She pulled at something there, and the panelling clicked and came open in two halves with only the lightest tug. Behind lay darkness so profound that the defused sunlight in the room showed only a hint of brickwork.

Astonished, Athos asked, "When did you find that, Your Majesty?"

"When I was alone before lunch." She allowed Porthos and Aramis to take her hands as she stepped back onto the floor. "I had made sure that the passage behind the fresco panels was still closed, but it occurred to me that there might be another. I searched until I found one. The notes were found on my pillows. Whoever left them need not have even come into the room."

"If only we had a..." Porthos started to say, then bent and retrieved a lantern from under the bed. He lit the candle from a taper by the fire. "Your Majesty is prepared."

Aramis took of his cloak and, flourishing it like an opera villain, laid it across the Queen's pillows. Looking at Porthos, he bowed and offered him precedence. "Shall we?"

"One of us must remain with the Queen," Athos said, acting as if Aramis had included him in the invitation.

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other, then at Athos, who narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin stubbornly.

The stand off held for a few breaths, then the Queen put her hands on her hips and said, "Honestly!" and then, "If M. Porthos would act as my guard, perhaps MM. Athos and Aramis could inspect the tunnels."

"Shall I hold the lantern?" Athos asked mildly, and, taking Aramis' shrug as an answer, took it from Porthos and climbed over the bed and into the passage.

Aramis said something charming to the Queen as he followed, but Athos was too busy inspecting the doors to listen. "These should open from the inside. Perhaps you'd better close them for now."

"Any footprints?" Porthos asked.

"No, it's been swept," Aramis replied, crouching to inspect the floor of the passage. The calculation of that act, knowing that the passage to the Queen's bed would be used enough that it would need cleaning, bothered Athos more than the letters themselves. "We'll see what we find further down."

"Do you need a ball of yarn, do you think?" the Queen inquired. When Aramis indicated a negative, they pushed the panelling closed. The last of the daylight Athos saw was her and Porthos leaning forward, faces matched in their admixture of excitement to concern.

"So," Aramis said. The candlelight cast his face in ever-changing shadow, but Athos could still read the uncertainty there.

Athos sighed, remembering his earlier pledge to work with the Musketeers on whatever terms they were willing to meet. "Perhaps you had better go first," he said, and Aramis nodded, taking the lantern.

The passage ran parallel to the Queen's rooms, narrowing for a moment as it passed the old, bricked-up entrance, then descending abruptly in a stairway so steep it almost formed a ladder. Aramis held the lantern high so Athos could watch his steps, and, for once, Athos didn't bridle at the courtesy.

They travelled down and lower still. Side passages led off at every floor, but lamplight showed these to be grimy and untrodden. They had turned enough times that Athos had lost their orientation, but when they came to what he thought was ground level on the river side of the château, the stair ended and the passage split into two clear ways. One slanted slightly up, and the other down.

"Which way?" he asked, but Aramis was already heading up. Athos had to hurry after him, or else be left in the dark. By the time he caught up, Aramis had come to an end and was trying to hold up the lamp and feel for a latch at the same time. Rolling his eyes, Athos pushed past him and yanked free the slipknot at the top of the wooden door. He had to put his shoulder to it to get it open after that, but when it shifted the smell alone immediately told him they were. "The stables." he commented, looking around what appeared to be a disused tack room, though one that had been swept clean as well.

"Yes," Aramis said, his second word so far. He listened at the outer door before opening it a crack, peering through, then nodding to himself. He tapped the wood with his knuckles, as though marking it.

"Shall we try the lower passage?" Athos asked, then stepped aside as Aramis nodded and started back into the passages. He retied the latch, saying, "I should imagine we will emerge by the river."

"Yes," Aramis said again, and Athos sighed. "What?"

"Are you in fact not speaking to me?" Athos demanded. He stopped in the intersection, forcing Aramis to halt as well, or abandon him without a light.

Aramis stayed this time, and, turning, he held the lantern up so that they might see each other's faces. His own closed expression matched his words as he said, "I don't know what I could possibly say to you."

It should have been refreshingly honest, especially after the dancing around him that Porthos had done, but Athos felt himself take a step back, staggering as though hit by a musket ball. Odd how Aramis had an unrivalled ability to do that to him.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said reflexively. He reached out as through to steady Athos, but withdrew when waved off. "And I'm sorry for earlier in the gardens; it wasn't fair to take advantage of you."

"You couldn't if you tried, Monsieur," Athos spat. "Had you not once been my friend, I would have gutted you like a rabbit." He straightened, forcing his body into parade rest. "Tell yourself whatever you need to let your conscience lie easy, but I was the finest swordsman in the company."

"And now you sit in gardens and read poetry to ladies."

Athos punched him in the eye. His arm flew into a tight right cross without even thinking of the action, and this time it was Aramis who staggered. Athos had to save the lantern before he dropped it, setting it on the floor a few feet away.

He kept his hands raised, ready to strike again, but Aramis stayed where he was dabbing at the orbit of his cheekbone and brow, checking for blood. "That'll swell shut," he commented.

"Sorry to spoil your looks." Athos didn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"No, no. I deserved it, and more besides. Would you like to hit me again?"

"I think I'm good." Folding his arms, Athos stared at him curiously. "What's the _matter_ with you?"

"With me?" Aramis twisted his mouth into a ghastly smile. "I just ruined one of my best friends. I'm fine. What could possibly be the matter with me?"

So that was it. Athos felt like laughing, but knew it would only make things worse. "You give yourself too much credit," he said. "My ruin came through folly all my own; I had no need of your assistance."

"We should have protected you."

"I don't need your protection either," Athos insisted. He was considering punching him again, to see if that helped.

Slowly, carefully, as though approaching a startled horse, Aramis reached across the passage, laying a hand on Athos' elbow. "Maybe not," he said, "But perhaps you deserve it."

Athos throat closed and he found himself utterly incapable of speech. He turned away, picking up the lantern and starting down the lower passage, glad that Aramis wouldn't be able to see his face.

He felt a strange kinship to that guilt. He knew well what it felt like to irreparably destroy something he loved, and regret too bitterly to put words to the least feeling. The silence that bound them to the end of the tunnel – which did indeed emerge from under the bottom terrace – held a different quality. It had lost its sullenness, and gained a note of understanding.

Aramis stood by the riverbank a moment, watching the slow waters of the Seine swirl and dapple the reflected clouds. They still held the last traces of sunset orange, but the dusk had almost faded into night. At last, Aramis turned form the river. "We should get back. Porthos will worry."

"Yes," Athos said, and led the way into the tunnel.

As they turned to squeeze past the narrow section behind the old entrance, something caught Athos' eye. He hadn't seen it coming the other way, but the lantern light picked it out clearly in the reverse direction. Aramis bumped into him as he paused to pluck it from the rough edge of a brick.

"Sorry," Aramis said, but Athos waved him off.

When the panels opened, Porthos looked at Aramis' eye, which was already purpling, then at Athos, then laughed deep from his belly.

"Did you run into difficulty?" the Queen asked.

Aramis combined alighting to the floor with a deep bow. "No, Your Majesty, though regrettably I did run into a wall."

"How unfortunate," she said, and Porthos snorted. "Did you find anything of interest?"

As Aramis described the passages, Athos sat on the edge of the bed, fist closed tight. Aramis' cloak still covered the pillows and part of the counterpane and he stared down at the azure wool with growing apprehension.

"Athos," Porthos said, bringing him back to himself. "What have you found?"

"I..." he started, then broke off. Instead he opened his hand, revealing a single strand of blue. "This was caught on a brick, not ten paces from here." He laid it across Aramis' cloak, already knowing it would be an exact match in colour and fibre.

"Well," Aramis said. "The good news is that we've considerably shortened our list of suspects."


	8. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. 1628.

"And what about Sainte-Marthe and Guiffrey?" Aramis asked. He was pacing out the distance from the bed to the window, from thence to the door, and back to the bed. "Weren't they on duty when you found this?"

"Yes," the Queen said, "But they only escorted us to the doors near the stable. Do you think a man could run though those passages and leave a note in so little time?"

Athos remembered the endless skirts and stairs and dithering – Lord, had it only been that morning? – and said, "Easily, Your Majesty."

"They're still on the list then." Porthos was at the Queen's writing desk, trying to scribble down times and schedules. So far he had a list of dates and times letters had shown up, and what he could remember of the duty roster from before he'd arrived. Athos had done his best to account for their movements since his arrival the day before, but he'd been doing his best to stay out of their way and didn't remember much. He cursed himself for the error now; he shouldn't have excluded them as suspects just because they were former comrades. Porthos shook his head, saying, "This is no good. It could be any of the six of them, and I can't start asking without tipping him off, and I can't tip one off if I'm not sure about the other five."

Aramis crossed to peer over his shoulder. Athos still sat on the bed, with the Queen in a chair by the door. "And there's no way to know if we have a single traitor or a nest of them. Two against six is fine when you're fighting Red Guards, but these are Musketeers."

"Indeed." Though Athos was more interested in who had hired the nest of traitors, but he had to admit that knowing their number would be to advantage. He silently amended the numbers to _three against six_ so long as he could get a sword. "We will need to catch him in the act."

"Or her," Aramis said.

"Right." Porthos still had his nose in the papers. "Most of the notes showed up around noon, one after breakfast, one at bedtime. None at night."

"I assumed they didn't wish to risk waking me," the Queen said.

"Do you have a bedfellow?" Aramis asked.

She shook her head. "Not lately. I can't bear to let any of them that near to me."

"I pledged to sleep across the door." Athos said. "We should not leave Her Majesty alone, even at night. What if our epistler's methods should change?"

Aramis had stopped and was watching him intently. He took a breath to say something, protest written across his face, but then checked himself. When Porthos turned and raised his eyebrows, Aramis finally said, "I have an idea."

The Queen straightened in her chair. "Then let us hear it."

* * *

At the end of it all, Athos felt as though he were caught in the old word puzzle of the fox, the goose, the sack of grain, and how one got them across the stream uneaten. They all left the Queen alone, had a light respite before bed, and apparently retired for the night. Athos then took the notion of a night-time walk by the river, which led him back to the Queen's rooms via the passages. Porthos was already there, Aramis having started a barracks rumour that he was trysting with one of the court ladies so that he could come through the stables entrance – this had originally been Aramis' role, and he gave it over only grudgingly. The two of them locked and barred the main chamber door, shifted the mattress and bedding into the sitting room, where the Queen settled, and got in an argument about who ought to sleep on the floor.

"Two months ago," Athos stated, "When we only had one bed, and I said that I would take the floor so that I didn't have to share with Aramis, you didn't hesitate then." The were whispering so as not to disturb the Queen, and only one candle remained lit. Porthos didn't answer, just stood in place arms folded, as immovable as Atlas. "It's a large bed," Athos prodded. "We could share."

"Not happening," Porthos hissed. "It's difficult enough just being in the same room with you."

"Oh," Athos said, a little too loudly, then paused, at a loss. He knew of course that the alpha's desire to dominate an omega was as strong as that omega's desire to submit, but he had not applied that directly to Porthos and himself, or if he had, he hadn't allowed himself to consider the implications. "I'll take the bed, then."

"Thank you. Listen..." Porthos hesitated. The candlelight cast the room in black and orange, but Athos thought he saw Porthos' cheek's darken. "Listen," He started again, "I don't mean you have to be afraid of me. I wouldn't. What they say about alphas, I'm not like that. I could never hurt you."

Athos wanted to say that Porthos was hurting him right now, that everything he said cut to the bone. Instead, he commented, "Until I go into heat."

"Right," said Porthos, and he turned away to snuff the candle, then lay at the foot of the bed, head on one pillow, body curled around another.

Without the mattress, Athos spread a blanket across the lattice base, settled a pillow, and pulled Porthos' cloak over top of himself. He lay on his back, staring at the darkness and listening to Porthos' breathing. After so many nights isolated in his own rooms, that presence on the floor felt unbearably welcome, like just a taste of wine when one was parched clean through. The Queen had said that omega's needed touch, something he'd heard all his life, and he'd thought he'd suppressed that urge with all the others. Only now that he found himself alone, with all bonds broken, did he realise how true it had been, how much he'd relied on the comradely contact with his friends.

He longed to crawl onto the floor and burrow into Porthos' embrace, let him wrap himself around Athos as he was hugging the pillow now. He remembered that last morning on the island, and what it had felt like to wake with strong arms around him, and wished that he'd never known what he couldn't have. Porthos didn't want him, and why would he? Athos knew that his submission was all he had to offer now. The man but rarely slept with omegas as it was, said he didn't like feeling that out of control. 

He tried to figure out when he'd started to wish that Porthos would accept him. Had it been on the island? Before? He couldn't think of it clearly enough to tell. He had difficulty differentiating the instinct to allow himself to be taken from the desire for a specific person. His last judgement in that regard had not ended well for him, and now he wasn't sure he had any idea of how omegas were supposed to choose their partners.

In the stories he'd read, there was some kind of spiritual connection between the couple that met in the first chapter, something that instantly informed them they'd end up bound at the closing of the story. He'd thought he'd had that with Anne, thought maybe he still did. They'd never bound, but if he met her now, he honestly didn't know if his will would still bend to hers. How was he to know what to do? Did he have to take all comers or no one at all, or were there options? 

He rolled to his side, curling around his knees, and attempted to still his thoughts to sleep.

"What'd Aramis say to you?" Though Porthos' voice barely rose above a whisper, Athos started. He'd thought Porthos had fallen into one of those deep and immediate sleeps common to soldiers and children.

"Pardon?"

"He didn't run into a wall."

Athos twisted perpendicular to his original alignment, so that his head was just a few feet from Porthos' on the floor. "Oh, that. He accused me of being a courtier."

Porthos' breath huffed out, then there was silence. Finally, he said, "You _are_ a courtier now."

"That's why I hit him."

"Ah." Another pause, in which Porthos held his breath. "What I said before, about you liking it here, I just meant, well, it's not so bad, is it? All the fancy clothes, and the pastries, and the Latin. A lot of people'd kill for that kind of life."

"All I ever wanted to be was a soldier," Athos told him. "I thought you'd understand that."

"Yeah. Well. Being a courtier wasn't exactly an option for me, was it?"

"True enough." They lay silently again, while Athos tried to think of how to explain what it was like to face a future he'd spent his whole life avoiding. At last he said, "There's a cost for that you do not yet see. My mother called it 'a life spent managing accounts and bearing sons.' I won't get to keep what I have here. Sooner or later, they'll force me to marry."

A growl of denial rumbled out of Porthos. "Maybe not. The Queen likes you. You could keep your job here, maybe look after her a bit. She doesn't have anyone either."

Athos thought about it. He couldn't think of anything to say past stomping his foot and saying that he didn't want to. "Maybe."

Porthos must have sensed his equivocation, because he sighed and said, "I wish none of this ever happened; we could go back to the way things were. I can't see how it'll work without you, being just Aramis and me again. 'The Two Inseparables' doesn't have the same ring to it."

It certainly sounded better than "The One Inseparable Left All By Himself," but Athos knew how pathetic saying that would sound. 

Leather creaked below him as Porthos shifted, then a hand groped across the bed until it found his arm. Athos took it and pressed it to his chest as Porthos said, "I wish you'd told us."

"I didn't know how. I was afraid," he said, not sure what had come over him. It seemed easier to say here in the dark, with only a single touch to tie him to the world. "Every time I took the drug, every time I had to fight the urge to submit, I was afraid you'd find out what I was. Now you have, and I'm living a nightmare from which I cannot awake." 'Again,' Athos didn't add. He'd been right earlier in saying that he was quite capable of inciting to his own ruination.

"We could start over."

"How?"

Porthos' arm moved as he shrugged and Athos tightened his grip on his hand. "Go somewhere new. Spain, or across the sea. Somewhere no one knows us."

He'd said "us" and "we" so easily that it took Athos' breath away. He had to wonder if Porthos was including Aramis as well, assuming he'd come, or if he meant just the two of them together. Whatever the detail, Athos knew he couldn't ask that of either of them, so he said, "I could never leave France."

"We could take up piracy," Porthos offered wildly.

"What, become Huguenots and sail out of La Rochelle?" Athos asked, which made Porthos laugh and the Queen tell them both to go to sleep. Which, surprisingly, Athos did, even after Porthos claimed that he needed his hand back.

* * *

The next morning, Athos lay on the edge of the bed and watched Porthos sleep. The first light of pre-dawn just lit the room, still casting a shadow in the corner where Porthos had curled up. He slept with seeming ease, sprawled half on his stomach, pillow still in his embrace. His features seemed so smooth and untroubled that even the scar across his eye had lost its usual fierceness. Athos wished he could find that kind of peace, but even his dreams seemed haunted.

He thought about the conversation of the night before, and how Porthos had tried to spread choices before him, with all the magnificent folly of Henry of Navarre laying the standards of conquered cities at Diane d'Andoins' feet. Then, earlier still, when they'd both understood that should Athos finally go into heat, neither of them would have any choice at all. The unfairness of that was almost enough to choke him.

Coming to a decision, he rose and crossed to the Queen's writing desk. As dawn lit the clouds, Athos scrawled and signed a handful lines. It took longer than he thought to articulate exactly what he desired to say. Porthos and the Queen were stirring as by the time he salted, folded and sealed the letter. He had just addressed the exterior, salted that, and tucked it into his jacket by the time Porthos came to see what he was doing. Athos made a pretence of studying the guards' schedule that they'd made the previous night.

"Pinart and d'Aubiac this morning," Porthos said, apparently from memory. "We should go."

The bed wasn't exactly in order when they got the mattress back in place, but the Queen said that she would claim to have slept uneasily, so they unbarricaded the door to the hall and retreated down the passages. Behind them, the Queen was to get back into bed for her levée, which Aramis was to attend.

"My cloak smells like you," Porthos commented several minutes later. They'd come to the junction, but Porthos seemed reluctant to depart.

Athos shrugged. "Yours was to have been a night of sexual abandon. Returning to the barracks smelling of an omega can only enhance your credibility." Sleeping surrounded by Porthos' scent and the familiar warmth of Musketeer wool were advantages he did not mention.

"Aramis'll think that's a laugh."

"If he does not attempt to defend my alleged honour." He said it with a half smile, but Porthos frowned. "What's the matter now."

"Nothing." Porthos made to start toward the stables, then halted as though grabbed by the collar, and turned back. Athos tried to make out his expression – eyes wide, lips parted, but something determined about his jaw – but before he could, those lips were pressed against his.

The kiss lasted barely a heartbeat, and Athos had only gotten an impression of warmth and longing before Porthos tore himself away, saying, "Sorry."

"It's the cloak," Athos said, offering him the excuse, but Porthos shook his head.

Porthos scrubbed a hand through his hair, eyes not meeting Athos. "I'm not that kind of alpha," he reiterated. "It was because I wanted _you_."

Athos felt unaccountable disappointed that Porthos didn't realise that it was the same thing. "You wanted me before you knew I was an omega, did you?"

"Saw the potential."

"And yet I remained unkissed."

Finally, Porthos looked up, and, in his gaze, Athos saw an echo of the kiss' intensity and longing. "Not anymore. I said I was sorry, but I'm not. I should have done that years ago."

"I can't." Athos knew he sounded distant, almost hollow. "I'm not a man fated for romance." It seemed the simplest thing to say, when the list of reasons why sleeping with Athos was ill considered had grown so very long.

"Someday, you're going to tell me why you think that is." Porthos laid his hand on Athos' shoulder. "As for me, I don't believe in fate; save that I'm meant for great things."

Athos left out the obvious answer and said, "We should go. The Queen will be waiting."

"Right." This time Porthos did leave, and Athos was free to start back down the tunnels to the river.

The letter in his pocket seemed suddenly heavy. As he emerged on the banks of the Seine, he considered dropping it in, having done with the whole affair, but he could not. He owed someone a choice, now more than even.

* * *

The ill-tempered mare didn't seem to like Athos any more that morning than she had the previous one. The temptation to force its head and leap atop remained, as did the reasons why he should not. Catching a flash of blue behind him, he said, "Monsieur, if you would..."

Aramis, for it was he, of course it was, could not conceal his smirk, but did obligingly still the horse long enough for Athos to alight without a display of athleticism too ostentatious for an omega tutor. Thankfully, Aramis confined his merriment to his expression, and did not make jest at Athos' expense. His injured eye had not swollen shut, possibly because the red leech bites speckling the deepening purple. In recompense for the favour, Athos said nothing.

They fell in together, close enough to speak in conference, a few lengths behind the Queen.

"Do try to make us more conspicuous," Athos said, deliberately not looking at the pair of Musketeers riding either side. "Did you pick up an barracks gossip?" Athos asked.

"My eye, Porthos' cloak," Aramis said with a shrug. "No one yet has traced them back to the same source, though Sainte-Marte was asking quite a few questions about you."

"Me? What questions?" Athos tried to recall what he knew about her, who her family were, what their connections might be.

"Oh, where you came from, what des Jardins, if you had any understandings, that kind of thing. I got the impression that she was considering acquiring you. You may have overdone the Latin yesterday."

Athos was momentarily appalled, before he remembered that they were quite reasonable questions that an unattached young alpha might ask about an omega of a similar rank and state, which, in itself, was appalling. "I hope you told her that my family are newly titled fish mongers."

The smirk was back. "I told her that, having never laid eyes on you before yesterday, I had no idea who you were, but that I would endeavour to find out."

"Bastard," Athos muttered, but without feeling.

"It gives us an excuse to talk," Aramis answered blithely. "Besides, you could do worse; her father's a Comte."

"Viscomte," Athos corrected, finally recalling her family, "And it's a new title."

"Fine match for the son of a fish monger, then."

"Aramis."

He pretended a hit but, in falling back, swept off the side of his horse to pluck a low-hanging sprig of apple blossoms, which he passed to Athos.

"You'll make Sainte-Marte jealous," Athos said dryly, but took the flowers regardless.

"Now there's an idea," Aramis said in a tone that Athos knew too well to like at all. "Perhaps if you got to know her better you could find out..."

Athos silenced him with a look. "I believe that prostituting oneself for the good of the company is more in your line, Monsieur."

"As if I've ever lent out the pleasures of my body for anything other than personal gain," Aramis said with a sniff, in selective disregard of both recent and ancient history. "Besides, this would be for the good of the Queen."

"In that case, I believe I will reserve the gambit for a time of more desperate need."

"Knowing you, that would be the End of Days," Aramis said it with a laugh, but then her frowned and regarded Athos seriously. "That's true, isn't it?"

Athos had lost the thread of conversation. "What is?"

"That Judgement Day would come before you..." an uncharacteristically delicate pause followed, "used your natural qualities to advantage."

Athos, when he caught Aramis' meaning, almost said, _I'm not that kind of omega,_ but the truth ran deeper. "I'm not sure I would know how," he admitted. "It wasn't a life I was raised to, and my instincts have proved... unreliable."

Aramis looked unaccountably concerned at that. "That root you took, did it..." he flopped his hand limply, implying impotence with disturbing ease, and raised his eyebrows in question.

"No, it...." Athos cleared his throat. "The desire remained; I've merely found it simpler to avoid entanglements."

"You mean you don't? Not ever?"

"Not since I joined the company." Not since Anne, more accurately, but he had never known how to tell that story, and now was not the time. He'd already revealed enough horrifying truths about himself, and that either of them were speaking to him at all was a gift too precious to risk for someone dead and gone.

"And we thought you were just being discreet. Sweet Christ on the Hill," Aramis breathed, then crossed himself in repentance of the blasphemy.

"It's not as bad as all that." Embarrassment was starting to creep in, or more than the conversation warranted. He had not realised that his love life had been a topic of quite that much debate, though he supposed he should have.

"Three years?" Aramis shook his head, then grinned. "In that case, we certainly won't be relying on your ability to flirt, good of the Queen or no."

In reply Athos switched the hindquarters of Aramis' horse, sending the beast forward and knocking the apple twig free of blossoms. He heard Aramis laugh as he reined in to fall back beside Pinart, and smiled to himself. Mortifying or not, it had felt like the first real conversation he'd had with Aramis since the island. It felt good to know that, whenever this assignment should end, this time they might part on good terms.

Still, he wondered what Aramis would think were he to find out that Porthos had kissed him. He still wondered what he thought of that himself. Rather, he'd been resolutely not wondering that very thing. Athos supposed there was a kind of submission in pretending something didn't exist until someone else had to make your choices for you. Submission or cowardice, but Athos had never thought himself as brave as his reputation claimed him to be. "Foolhardy" was a title that rested more easily across his shoulders, or perhaps, simply, "Fool."

Athos nudged his mare forward to fall in beside the Queen, and spent the rest of the ride on verb forms.

* * *

He had learned years ago that not thinking of something took far more effort and time than actually just thinking of it. One of the great advantages of drinking as much as he had become accustomed to do was that he could stop thinking about not thinking about something, or thinking altogether. However, Athos knew that he had to stay alert now, so that avenue was lost to him as well.

So, as he climbed the passages to his room, he bent his thoughts to Spencer and vocabulary, and to which of the Musketeers might be the traitor, and to anything that was not speculation as to _what the hell_ Porthos had been thinking to just kiss him like that.

It would break Treville's heart, he decided, to have one of his own turn on his Queen like that. The Captain had always had something of a soft spot for Her Majesty, and, no matter how fresh or stale the soldiers, these were still his Musketeers. Treville had hand picked each and every one of them. Athos was glad that, for once, Porthos was the one writing the reports, not himself. Their Captain was wont to express disappointment and frustration via apocalyptic wrath.

Athos wondered if Treville was still angry at him. "Spitting nails," Porthos had written, describing a mood Athos knew well. He had not originally thought to reconcile with anyone, his deception being so profound and unforgivable, but Porthos and Aramis' reactions had given Athos some small hope that Treville would eventually calm down enough to say his farewells, perhaps by letter.

He entered his room, trying to think of what form such an epistle might take, and closed the door behind him. Even as it clicked shut, he realised something was wrong. He smelled an alpha and sensed someone behind him. He started to turn, but the voice of the intruder made him freeze in place.

"I have a pistol pointed at your head, Monsieur. Move, and I will blow it off."

Athos did as he was told, keeping his hands away from his sides. He didn't need to turn; he already knew exactly what he'd see: Jean Guiffrey of the King's Musketeers, with a pistol levelled at Athos' head.

"Now," Guiffrey ordered. "Over to the window."

Though he complied, Athos felt obliged to point out, "You won't shoot me."

"Will I not?" His tone was difficult to gauge, but he didn't sound nervous or on edge. Which came to a balance: he would be less likely to make a mistake that Athos could take advantage of, but also less likely to panic and shoot Athos in the head.

"You're not forty paces from the Queen and her guard. A gunshot will do nothing but bring them down on your neck."

"Nothing but kill you." No, definitely no panic there, nor resolve. Guiffrey wasn't even worried. "Turn around."

Athos again did as instructed. Guiffrey had his sword out as well, with the pistol in his left hand, and his expression looked almost bored.

"What is my life worth if I could not spend it in service of my Queen?" Athos asked.

Between the foot of the bed and the wall, with the window at his back, he had no room. He could take the shot and count on it to alert Porthos and Aramis in the next room. In case of a sword thrust, he would probably have time to parry with his daggers and cry out. Regardless of what happened, he would announce the traitor, but Athos remembered Guiffrey being a fair swordsman, and knew he couldn't count on staying alive long enough for rescue to arrive.

"Now. On your knees."

He should move now, he knew, strike before his last advantage was gone, but he did not. As Athos sank to his knees on the floor, he wondered if his sudden onset of self preservation stemmed from prudence, cowardice, or, if Aramis had been right, and this was some omega compulsion beyond his control.

If it were, it came to nothing. Athos found no peace in submitting to an enemy, instead he could feel his shoulders tighten, as though a heavy yoke were placed across them, until his neck ached with the weight of it. He kept his hands balled at his sides, not placed open across his thighs. He would not look down.

Guiffrey smiled coldly, keeping his weapons ready. "Tell me, 'M. des Jardins,' for whom are you working?"

"My service is to France and her King," Athos replied, "And yours, Monsieur?"

"Who found you this position?" he pressed, ignoring Athos' question.

"Ah, I see. That would be the King as well," technically, by way of Cardinal Richelieu, but that went without mention. "I ask again, what of yourself?"

"To what employment did he commission you?"

"To teach Her Majesty the Queen the language of the English," he said in that language, then again in French when it seemed that Guiffrey did not understand. "May I ask the purpose behind your enquiries? I confess I am not used to such violence." His first lie, though he supposed, in a way, that it was true. He had grown used to people treating him as though he might offer a fight. Though Guiffrey was being extremely cautious, he did not appear concerned that Athos might resist with anything beyond words.

"And to warm the Queen's bed?"

"Never while Her Majesty was in it," Athos said with as much dignity as he could. "And yourself?"

"With that traitor? Never." An emotion at last, Guiffrey's face twisted into a grimace of disgust. "Why were you in her chambers last night?"

Athos pressed his lips together, trying to hide a frown. "I would wonder that you might suspect such a thing," he said, "But your morals do seem quite degenerate."

He only felt the pain a moment after the blade grazed his cheek. Guiffrey had thrust and slashed so quickly that Athos had barely seen him move, and forcing him to revise his opinion of the swordsmanship from "Fair" to "Of concern." He suppressed the urge to touch the wound, and let the blood flow unhindered. He could feel it running down his bare jaw, and knew it would soon drip onto his jacket.

"How did you find the passages?" Guiffrey snapped. "Start answering, or you'll get worse than that. I can utterly ruin your looks."

It took all of Athos' effort not snort with derision. In all honesty, it would probably be in Athos' favour to further scar his face. "I can honestly tell you that I found no passage. Though I perceive that you have."

"Nonsense, I saw you leaving it at sunrise this morning."

Ah. There was that then. He had not even sensed being observed. Perhaps his conversation with Porthos had distracted him. "I watched the sun come up over the Seine," he protested, though knew it was probably a losing gambit. "I find the waters calming. The pressures of Court can be a strain for an unbound omega."

The sword tip laid open his other cheek before coming to rest under his chin. "I will start again," Guiffrey said, irritation finally starting to edge his voice. "For whom are you working?"

Athos looked past the blade and the hand that held it, past the arm and its achingly familiar pauldron, and met Guiffrey's wide-set grey eyes. He did not want to die, he realised, but if he had to, it would not be silently. "I serve the King," he said, "As someone who steals into ladies' bedrooms and threatens Her Most Catholic Majesty, the Queen consort of France, never could. You, Monsieur, are a traitor to the uniform."

He saw the decision cross in Guiffrey's before he even moved, the anger that drove him to a broader stroke then a simple thrust through the throat, and Athos dove forward the instant the blade drew back. Athos' stiletto found his hand, then Guiffrey's ankle, sliding through his boot as though it weren't even there. Guiffrey collapsed on top of him with a pained grunt, not loud enough to be heard though the walls. Athos tried to yell the château down, but a sudden blow to his back knocked the breath from him. 

Athos tried to roll out from under Guiffrey's weight, hands scrabbling for purchase and finding only loose rugs. He caught hold of the foot of the bed, and kicked out and pulled forward at the same time. A booted foot connected with his temple, driving his face into the floor. Athos shook his head, but that only made it ache and spin. Blood smeared the rug, his own, he knew. The pressure on his back vanished, and he sucked in one lungful of air after another, but the room didn't clear and his head didn't stop ringing.

The only clear thing was the weight now draping itself over him, then the hand in his hair and blade under his chin. It was his own, he realised, and he knew without doubt that it would soon slit his throat.

"I serve the true Queen," Guiffrey hissed, "Not that foreign troublemaker. Since my letters don't seem to be having any effect, maybe something more drastic, such killing her horse, or," The dagger broke the skin above Athos' Adam's apple, "Or her pet omega."

Athos closed his eyes, realising that this, at last, was it. He regretted that his friends would find his body, killed not forty paces from them, and he regretted that his letter would be read only after his death. He wanted to fight, for them if not for himself, but had no room to move. Guiffrey was careful to hold his face clear of the back of Athos' head, and every other struggle only proved him to be utterly pinned.

"Yield." The voice came from nowhere, or rather his memory, which suddenly delivered a clear impression of Porthos rubbing his face into the dirt of the garrison courtyard, all those years ago. The weight pressing him down, the heavy breath on the back of his neck, and over everything else the pain and bone-deep fatigue. Porthos' voice again: "Come on, you stubborn sonofabitch. I said, ' _yield_.'"

So Athos did. He went limp in Guiffrey's grip, letting his legs slid apart and his ass jut up. A small, keening whimper escaped his tightly pressed lips, the pleading sound of a cur not wanting to be kicked again. The world softened at the edges, and he could feel a haze of desire spreading over him, and, it seemed, out from him.

"What?" Guiffrey stammered. "No, I..." His grip on the dagger wavered.

Gathering all his will and ruthlessly suppressing the urge to lie limp and let himself be taken, Athos wrenched the blade and the hand holding it away from his neck. Then he dipped his head enough to swing it back into Guiffrey's nose. He cried out, and Athos added his own voice as a shout for help.

He still had a one-handed hold of the edge of the bed, and pulled and kicked himself free. His desperate scramble had brought him almost to the door when it burst open, missing his head by an inch, and disgorged Aramis.

"I found our traitor," Athos said, still gasping. He tried to push himself to his knees by couldn't seem to make the effort. The room still had an odd, veiled quality to it.

"I see that. He appears to be bleeding on your rug," Aramis commented, declining his sword toward Guiffrey. "So do you. Are you injured?"

"Grazed," Athos assured him, though his face stung abominably. "Please, get him out of here. I need a moment to collect myself. Where's the Queen?"

"In her chambers. Porthos is there." He tapped Guiffrey on the crown with his sword point. "If you would be so good as to disarm, Monsieur?"

It was only then that Athos recalled the pistol. He cursed softly. Aramis could have been shot. He should have remembered and done something to protect his brother. Behind him, Guiffrey growled like a wolf, and Athos instinctively kicked him in the face. That felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. He tried to climb to his feet, or at least his knees, levering against the edge of the bed, but the world felt sick and dizzy.

"Athos!" Aramis sounded alarmed, but something else as well, something thick and dark. "Are you hurt?"

"No." Athos shook his head, hair falling to cover his face. "No, I... Aramis. Something's wrong. There is something wrong with me."

"Mary, Mother of Jesus," Aramis swore, and this time he didn't cross himself. Rather he stepped around Athos, grabbed Guiffrey by the collar, and hauled him to the door, pistol and all. "Athos, you're going into heat," he snapped, and threw Guiffrey out the door, and followed sharply after.

"Wait," Athos said, already pulling at his jacket.

Aramis hesitated on the threshold, door half closed already. "Athos, I can't. I don't want to... not to you."

"No." Athos had the letter at last. He tossed it to Aramis then backed away to curl up under the window.

Aramis caught it between gloved hands and stepped back, slamming the door behind him.

Dimly, Athos heard the lock click and then cloth fall, and realised that Aramis must be laying his cloak along the bottom of the door. He should do the same on his side, he realised, but didn't feel that he could move.

The heavy, choking fog that seemed to fill the room had started to coalesce around him. He felt his throat tighten, and already his breaths came in shallow huffs. A slow march had started pounding behind his temples, and the air, cool not half an hour before, sweltered around him. His fingers worked at the fastenings of his jacket and then the ties of his shirt, seemingly of their own volition, until he was naked and kneeling, jammed in the corner between the bed and the window.

It was then that the desire hit, a wave of lust so powerful that he felt as though he were on the verge of orgasm. At the same time, every touch burned like live coals. He tried to touch his cock and recoiled, then meant to curl in around himself, but could no more endure that. At last he fell back into the position of a kneeling omega: head bowed, back straight, legs wide, palms resting, upturned, on his thighs.

It did little to abate the heat, which seemed to roll through him in waves, like a rising sea against a strand, overcoming him even as he gasped for air.

He could only pray that Aramis had delivered the letter, because what he had written was wrong. He had no possibility of surviving what was to come. Not alone.


	9. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. 1628.

His breathing filled the stillness of the room, shallow and ragged to his ears, but also quieting. He followed the sound, in through his nose out through his mouth, over and over and over again in an attempt to still the need. Some time ago, he'd tried to mouth a prayer, but couldn't imagine that even the Blessed Mary, Mother of Mercy, would intercede for one such as him. Instead, his lips found the shapes of the words he'd written that morning: the letter he'd sent with little hope of finding welcome.

> My Friend,—As I write these words, you lie asleep on the floor, a consequence of your ridiculous insistence on granting me the bed. For that, and the seventy times seven kindness you have done me these past three years, I am grateful.
> 
> It is not out of gratitude that I write the following. I am, at this time, and to the best of my knowledge, also of sound mind; your mere presence in the same room has yet to overcome my reason.
> 
> I hope that this letter finds you without inconvenience to its messenger. If you receive it, I will have gone into heat. I want you to know that I am perfectly capable of surviving this process without intervention. I'm given to understand that it is difficult to weather alone, but hardly fatal. I have undoubtedly undergone worse. While I admit to some trepidation, having until now lived as a beta, I have every confidence in my ability to endure, and would rather suffer what is to come a thousand times than submit to relief offered out of pity.
> 
> However, if you, following your own yearnings, should seek my company during this time, I would welcome you. I am, again, not speaking out of obligation, nor out of fear, but as someone who thinks you the most admirable man I have ever met, and who has longed after you. If you desire it, if you desire me, I offer myself wholly unto you.—Yours, if you'll have me, Athos.

He had written Porthos' name on the letter, and sent it with Aramis, who must have given it over straight away, but hours passed, and Porthos failed to arrive. The room had no clock aside from the play of the light, which Athos watched, one breath at a time, as noontide dimmed to afternoon then faded to evening. Had he been able to move, he would have lit a candle then; as it was, darkness consumed the room.

Without light, his breath sounded louder, and the pain grew steadily. He felt foreign to his own skin, and yet unable to touch it, unable to touch anything without sparking a blaze of lust that could not be quenched. He tried to mouth the words again, but could not, an unending whimper taking their place. He tried to turn it into a tune, as he'd once hummed through the pain of a shattered wrist, and eventually produced the same three, choked notes of a half-forgotten nursery song. It helped a little, and he rocked with the broken tune, wishing he could hug himself. Or hang himself. He understood know why so many poems said that a heat could carry one through despair to death beyond.

He understood that he'd been wrong when he'd told Porthos he'd endured worse. Nothing could be worse than this, not the scourges of battle, nor the festering pain of Anne and everything she'd done. The lust that had overcome him burned so exquisitely that Athos knew that he'd do anything for anyone who could offer him relief. He would submit himself the degradation at the hands of the entirety of the Red Guard, or the English Army, and do it with a smile, if only they'd touch him, if only they'd fuck him. If Anne were to reappear from the grave, he would kiss her feet and prostrate himself at her mercy, no matter what her past crimes or her future plans for him.

Porthos, it seemed, had taken him at his word and left him to endure his trials alone. This kiss in the passages had given him hope, but clearly that had not been enough to overcome his qualms in regard to having relations with omegas. Even when Athos had made clear his desire in advance, it _still_ had not been enough. Perhaps it was Athos himself that was the problem.

As the night deepened, Athos came to understand that the pain was his due for a life given falsity and disobedience. He had betrayed everyone he had claimed to love, and now he was left alone. It seemed that divine justice came on this Earth after all. He wondered how many turns of the year and flushes of heat he would feel before his sins burned away. Probably more than he had life in him to see through.

Athos hummed more fervently, and closed his eyes, attempting to blot out the shadows that surrounded him.

When light filled the room, he thought it was just the flashes behind his lids, but then he heard the door click shut and the key in the lock, and opened his eyes again. He had to blink past the glare, even a single candle blinded him after hours of total darkness. The light doubled as it passed to the candle by the bed. Even when his eyes adjusted Athos found that he could not look up. His body seemed frozen, the anticipation bonding to the desire and fixing him in place. He focused on the floor in front of him, staring at the carpet until the pattern doubled, and the boots that came into view were four instead of a pair. He bent and kissed the toes, first one and then the other, and then the first again..

Leather creaked, then gloved fingers carded through his sweat-soaked hair, and Athos looked up through his lashes.

Porthos was here. He was crouching in front of Athos, and now he brushed his fingers under his chin, tilting his head back to look into his eyes. Athos found it difficult to focus, but took in an impression of flushed skin and dark eyes, parted lips that leaned in to meet his. This kiss lasted hardly longer than the one in the passages had. Athos tried to lean into it – he wanted every scrap of their skin to touch – but the fingers on his chin and the hand in his hair held him in place.

"Steady," Porthos murmured. "We have time." He kissed Athos' mouth again, lightly, lips just brushing before they pulled away, then again, touching the corner of Athos' mouth, and again, sucking ever so lightly on his bottom lip.

Every time, Athos strained forward only to be held back, until the pain of Porthos' grip made him subside. When he let himself wait in expectant stillness, the hold on his hair loosened, and the kissing resumed. At first, they played lightly at his lips, testing him, taunting him with the briefest possible contact, but as Athos held steady, they intensified. A kiss fell full on his mouth, wet and with a flash of teeth on his lips. Another sucked at the corner of his jaw, marking his skin with soothing pain. Athos parted his lips and felt Porthos' tongue against his teeth. He almost gave in then, almost surged forward – The unbearable need inside him focused on that point of connection, on wanting to touch and kiss and be forever overwhelmed by the impression of skin on skin – but he understood now that he had to hold fast. He let his eyes drift closed and received each caress as it came.

Porthos pulled away again, frowning sympathetically at Athos' whimper but not relenting. "Hush," he said, "Come to bed." He took Athos' hands as he rose, pulling him to his feet with him. Athos would not have thought he could stand – a few minutes ago he could hardly have moved – but he found balance in Porthos. As long as he didn't let go his hands, he could follow the few steps around to the side of the bed.

When they got there, Porthos sat on the edge of the bed, spreading his legs, and gently pushed Athos back to his knees. Athos looked up, confused, realising for the first time that Porthos was in full uniform, including his cloak and hat, while Athos himself wore nothing, not even his locket – the chain had burned his skin until he'd had to take it off. He tried to formulate a protest, to say that he wanted to be in the bed too, so that Porthos could touch him again, or better still could take him, but the words wouldn't come.

Some of it must have reached his eyes, for Porthos said, "I won't last long enough to do this properly. I need you to take the edge off." His still gloved hand spread between his legs, squeezing lightly. "Can you do that for me?"

"Yes." It came out a croak, almost unwillingly, but he knew in his bones that he could not do other than what Porthos asked. If being in thrall made him uneasy, it was with enough intensity to fight past the need and desire. Whatever Porthos asked of him, Athos would do, and if he did well perhaps Porthos would reward him with what he wanted.

His fingers trembled, but he opened the trousers and pulled them down enough to get at the drawers underneath. Those had fussy ties that made him wish for a knife, but at last he undid them. Porthos' cock was large and hard; Athos made to swallow it to the root, if he could, hands still on his knees, but the hand in his hair stopped him again.

"Slowly," Porthos told him. "Lick it first. Earn it."

Moaning in protest only made Porthos hold him more firmly, his cock just out of reach, so Athos nodded and dipped his head. Porthos patted his cheek, then spread his legs further and rested his hands on his his thighs. For all his casual pose, he shuddered when Athos' tongue ran along the side of his cock, licking him from crown to base. He groaned as Athos sucked and kissed back up the bottom, then licked down the other side. Leather creaked as his hands tightened to fists when Athos grazed his teeth against the hollow bellow the head.

Athos looked up, wondering if this might be enough, if he would be allowed to take it in his mouth, if Porthos would take him now, but Porthos shook his head, and said, "Again." and, when he'd done everything again, and another time, "Just the tip."

Porthos had been right, he didn't last long. As soon as Athos took the end of his cock between his lips, and pushed the hood back with his tongue so that he could suck properly at the end, Porthos' hips bucked and his seed filled Athos' mouth. Athos sucked and swallowed and sucked again.

Neither of them said a word, and an uncanny silence filled the room – broken only by the sound of Porthos' breathing and his own throat working – and it seemed to lay heavily on Athos. He didn't know if it had worked, if he'd done what Porthos had wanted. His own lust, pushed aside by attending to Porthos, returned in its complete agony, and he hazily wondered what would become of him now that Porthos had gotten what he needed.

He carefully licked Porthos' cock clean, then his own lips, and only then did he look up. "Please," he whispered, his voice still a poor, cracked thing. "Please don't leave me."

Porthos cupped his face between his hands, the leather cool against Athos' skin, and said, "Never happen." He kissed Athos again, fully and wholeheartedly, before promising, "Never, I swear." His voice sounded hoarse too.

Athos nodded, but found himself again unable to speak. He felt shattered, as though every whole thought or emotion he'd ever possessed had been broken to shards and those ground to sand. Like making new glass from old, he realised. Nothing in him could hold its own shape, nor did he know what that shape was to be. He would have to trust Porthos to reform him from the pieces of the old, and would have to trust that Porthos knew he needed it, for truly he had no words.

"Here," Porthos said, "Let's go to bed." Athos would have been happy to crawl over his lap and under the sheets, but again Porthos drew him to his feet. "You better undress me first, hey?" he said. His eyes crinkled with amusement and affection, and desire still darkened his cheeks.

Looking at him right then, Athos would have done anything he asked, whether he was in heat or not. So he did.

The cloak fell heavily to the floor, followed by the sword belts – these laid more carefully aside – and Athos started on the fastenings of the jacket. Porthos sat placidly with his arms at his sides, letting Athos work. He rolled his shoulders as Athos peeled the jacket off, and didn't seem to mind Athos running his hands down his arms. Encouraged, Athos tugged the shirt free and lifted it slowly over Porthos' head, caressing as much skin as he could along the way. Porthos' chest felt warm and surprisingly soft, and Athos had to resist leaning into him and rubbing his face against it like a cat. Instead he laid the shirt atop the jacket over the foot of the bed and knelt to pull Porthos' boots off.

It brought his face level with Porthos slack cock, a reminder that he would have to wait. He wanted to lick and suck and coax it back to erectness, then impale himself upon it, but knew he could not, not yet. Porthos had told him to undress him, and that he would. The boots came off, and socks as well. The trousers and drawers already undone, Porthos lifted his hips when Athos pulled them off.

Then he was naked save for his earrings and St Jude medallion. He shifted to let Athos climb on the bed beside him, then ordered him to lie back. Athos hadn't even seen him take up his headscarf, but as he lay across the bed, Porthos took his wrists in one large hand and wrapped the cloth around them with the other. He pulled the knot tight enough to withstand some wriggling, but not prolonged struggle. Athos let Porthos arrange him so that lay at a diagonal across the bed, his arms stretched above his head and his legs splayed open.

"You're not going to try to move." It wasn't a question, but Athos nodded anyway. Porthos grunted in approval and dedicated himself to examining every inch of Athos body.

He started at the hands, his body braced over Athos' his cock brushing Athos' stomach, but his attention focused on taking each of Athos fingers into his mouth and sucking lightly. Then he kissed the centre of each palm, and sucked at the wrists, just under where the scarf bound them together. Rough hands stroked down Athos' arms, callouses running over the insides where his skin was still smooth. Porthos nipped at the undersides of Athos' upper arms, leaving marks on the tender skin. So close to Athos' mouth, he leaned over to kiss him demandingly. He pressed his tongue against Athos teeth until he opened for him, then swept the inside of his mouth, and chewed at his lips until Athos let his head fall back and Porthos do what he would.

He had no will of his own, he realised. Porthos had already taken him apart, and now he was claiming every piece of him. Marking him as a thing that belonged to someone him. All Athos had left to him was the hope that Porthos would put a better use to his body and soul then Athos himself had, that somehow this reformation would wipe his sins away, not leave him stained and broken, a chimera of ill-fitted parts, a stained-glass window made by a fool.

Every part of him that remained untouched ached with need unfulfilled, but if he tried to lift his hips, or bring his arms down in an embrace, Porthos growled deep in his chest and pinned him firmly to the bed. "Don't. Move."

Porthos' mouth left his, and nipped at his neck. Athos tipped his head back and meekly accepted the love bites down his throat. It seemed to purify something inside him, the hands and mouth on his skin slaking the lust that nearly consumed him. He lay quiescently under Porthos' touch as he kissed Athos' chest and raked blunt nails down his ribs. He sucked at the hollow where leg joined hip for a long time, seeming to breath in Athos' scent.

Athos had been trying hard not to think about his cock, hard for hours now and unable to come. He felt as though he balanced on a sword edge, that the lest attention would bring release, but that he could not truly find it until he'd done everything his alpha wanted. Now Porthos' medallion brushed against him, setting already burning skin ablaze. Even the slightest touch of cool metal forced a sob from his throat and his hands tugged at the scarf.

"Hush," Porthos told him. "Not long now. You've been very good."

Athos bit his lip, but could not hold back another shuddering sob as Porthos ignored his cock to nuzzle between his legs. His beard tickled the insides of Athos' thighs, only sharpening the pain of the next bite. The softness of the caress and the suddenness of the pain combined to make every sensation more real, more immediate. Athos lost himself in the scrape of callouses and beard, and the pinch of teeth soothed by gentle kisses. Porthos slid to the floor next to the bed as he worked his way down Athos' legs. Finally, Porthos brushed gentle kisses on the soles of Athos' feet, and leaned away.

"Roll over," he demanded, voice rough, but Athos found himself unable to move. He had to let Porthos flip him onto his stomach and pull his hips up so that he lay braced on his knees and elbows, his bound hands stretched out before him.

For a moment he was afraid that Porthos would start the whole process over again, working up his back as he had down his front, but Porthos climbed on the bed behind him and draped his body over Athos' own. He kissed the side Athos' neck until he turned his head so their lips could meet.

"Ready?" Porthos asked, and Athos snorted. He'd been ready for hours. Porthos fumbled behind him, digging through his sword belt for something, then adjusting himself so that the head of his cock brushed Athos ass. He was hard again, and barely waited for Athos to nod before he pressed forward.

This, at last, was what Athos had wanted. He felt his whole body laid itself open for Porthos as he thrust into him. Porthos took him at a stroke, and Athos groaned with relief. He felt a shudder run through him as Porthos pulled out, so intense that he thought he might shake apart. One hand held Athos' hips and the other clamped across the back of his neck, driving his face into his bound wrists. The headscarf smelled of Porthos' sweat, but then the whole room did by now.

Porthos pressed in again, driving the breath from Athos, and not letting him take another as his hips snapped forward again and again. Porthos was moaning now, not words, but forming a stream of small animal sounds of pleasure and exertion. His cock drove into Athos with the steady beat of a heart, and Athos felt that it had over taken his own pulse. There was nothing left of him save a vessel for Porthos to fuck, not even blood and breath. His own lust faded into the distance, so that he hardly noticed when Porthos' hand slid around to take his cock. All his was was a thing claimed, and if his alpha wanted him to come in his hand, he would.

He spilt his seed at the second stroke, feeling giddy and detached from himself, and the world didn't stop spinning until his alpha came with a shout and the sink of teeth into his shoulder.

The collapsed together on the bed, his alpha lying half on top of Athos, softening cock still inside him. Athos lay numbly, his arms trapped under him. He thought vaguely that he should feel empty, but instead he felt free. The heat had burned everything away, and now he cared not for duty or the world, or anything outside the room. All that mattered was the big alpha stoking his hair and crooning nonsense words in his ear.

Athos whimpered as his alpha pulled away, but he was back soon, he had just wanted to make a nest for them, to arrange them both under the blankets, so that he could sleep safe in his arms. The candles snuffed, Athos curled on his side and let his alpha surround him. A profound sleep fell on him the moment he closed his eyes.

* * *

Athos woke with the sun on his face and surprising clarity of thought. He also woke to cool sheets and a bed empty save for himself. He blinked in confusion, sudden panic gripping his heart, until he saw Porthos leaning against the sill and staring into the garden below. He was dressed only in his shirt, leaving long, muscled legs and bare feet exposed, and Athos watched him in appreciative silence as he tried to think of what to say.

"Good morning," he offered eventually, not quite the height of originality.

Porthos started and turned. His lips formed a smile as he saw Athos, but not quickly enough to erase the lines of care around his mouth and across his brow. Something was wrong, Athos realised, an the thought pained him as though he'd taken a blade to the stomach.

"Good morning," Porthos said in return, and bent to kiss Athos. His lips felt rough, as though he'd been chewing them in agitation,, but they moved tenderly. The kiss felt gentle and lasted a long time. Athos' wrists were free now, so he stroked Porthos' shoulders and then joined his arms around the small of his back.

When Porthos finally disentangled himself, he sat at the foot of the bed and looked down at Athos, the concern creeping back into his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Athos said out of habit, then paused to assess. His knees, ass and wrists feel sore, but not unduly. And his heart... the absolute peace and freedom of the night before had faded, the cares of the world beginning to creep in, but he still felt as though his soul had been scoured clean. "Better than I have in..." he hesitated, unsure how to quantify the time. "Since I can remember. And you?"

Porthos shook his head, clearly not wanting to answer, and stared toward the window. Athos said nothing, letting him take his time. When at last he spoke, his voice was soft and heavy with regret. "Last night, fantastic. Never better. This morning, thinking back..." He pressed a hand to his mouth, as though he thought he might be sick. Athos sat up and reached down the bed to rest a hand on his elbow. "I don't know myself. The things I did; the way I treated you." He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the world.

"It was what I needed," Athos told him softly, willing him to believe it. "You did me no harm."

"That's not what it feels like."

Athos' heart ached to the point of breaking. "Do you regret what we did?"

A sigh, one that seemed to take in all the air in the room and still leave Porthos diminished. "I don't know."

Not knowing what to say, Athos scooted to the edge of the bed, and held the covers up for Porthos. "Lie with me awhile. Give rest to your worries."

Porthos hesitated for a moment, then stripped out of his shirt and lay facing Athos, head propped on his fist. Only the thinnest strip of air separated them, but Athos felt like they could be be a hundred leagues apart. He tried to close the divide, kissing the point of Porthos' jaw, where his beard started.

"We need not do that again," he said. "I won't always be in heat."

Porthos nodded, but his frown did not ease. "We found the source of the letters," he said, apparently turning the conversation, but with a seriousness that made Athos think the topics were connected.

"Oh?" Athos asked. He had to admit that he'd quite forgotten that France had a Queen, let alone that someone had been threatening her. Then, Porthos had been awake longer.

"That's why I didn't come to you until so late. Guiffrey talked pretty fast once the Queen got a hold of him, but d'Aubiac was in on it too and made a run for it, so we had to track him down. We're pretty sure it was just the two of them. Of the Musketeers, anyway, could be half the court here for all we know."

"And their patron?"

"Patroness," Porthos corrected, wrinkling his nose. "'The true Queen of France.'"

Athos snorted. In all that had happened, he'd forgotten that as well. "Medici, then?"

"Who else? Thought if she made our Queen miserable enough, she'd ask her brother to make the Pope give her an annulment. Go back to Spain without a fight, and the King would marry one of his mother's pet vipers."

"Marie always was a terrible judge of character," Athos noted. He paused, trying to determine the reason for the shift in conversation. Porthos had clearly meant more than to just catch him up. Then he realised. "So it's over then? You'll be reassigned."

Porthos nodded, his expression closed. "Following relief, and maybe the Captain coming back to personally give those two a kicking, but yeah. I think Treville will probably want me and Aramis on the front with the King."

"I see," Athos said simply, and he did. In a few weeks at most, Porthos would be leaving, and Athos would be... what? Was it back to Cousin Antoine and a swiftly-arranged marriage, or could he do as Porthos had suggested and petition the Queen for a permanent position at court? And what then? What then in either case? He didn't know, and his head hurt to think about it. He longed for the simplicity of the night before, the feeling that no matter what he did, Porthos would take care of him.

The only problem was that Porthos didn't want to take care of him, not like that, and in the clear light of morning, Athos didn't want it either. Or so he thought. The next thing Porthos said rendered him utterly speechless.

Porthos half sat so he could look down at Athos, took a deep breath, and offered, "You could marry me."


	10. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. 1628.

Athos leaned across the space between them to kiss Porthos thoroughly. This saved him from saying the first three things that came to mind, which were, in order, "Yes!" "No!" and "I'm going to assume that you're joking."

The kiss didn't last, however, as Porthos seemed to sense he was stalling and pulled away, leaving Athos to flop on his back, stare at the ceiling, and wonder how the hell he was going to get out of this one.

"I do not believe that marriage between us would prosper," he said at last.

Porthos, predictably, took affront. "Why not?"

If Athos could have fought a dozen armed assailants, while still stark naked, he'd have taken the chance over this conversation. Porthos was the last person in France he would see hurt, but it seemed as though he could manage nothing else of late, for all that he loved him. "Shall I make a list?" he asked, deciding honesty was best, even if it hurt. Porthos had made his opinion of dissembling perfectly clear. "The first item being that I made a poor husband, and, presumably, would make a poorer wife; beyond which, my family would never allow it; you have stated unambiguously that you do not enjoy relations with omegas in heat, and, finally I have no wish to be married, not to anyone."

"I figured better me than some stranger your family picked," Porthos muttered. He got up, wrapping his arms about himself, and Athos realised that he'd employed a little too much honesty. "But I guess I'm good enough to for a quick tumble, not–"

Athos held up a hand to stop him saying something they both knew to be untrue. "I did not lie when told you that I thought you the most admirable man I know, a far finer man than any noble of my cousin's choosing. You would make anyone else a fine husband. But..." He struggled to find words to convey the depth of his sentiments. He rolled up to sit on the edge of the bed, his knee just brushing Porthos' as he stood still turned away from the bed. When he did not pull away, Athos leaned to rest his brow on Porthos' hip. "Even if it were possible, I would not have you fling yourself on my pyre."

A hand stroked Athos' hair, calming him, and he could feel the vibration of Porthos' voice as he said, "You're not half as bad as you think you are. It could work if we wanted it to." He sounded resigned, despite his words, like he'd given up already. Athos was glad of it; had Porthos pressed harder, he would have had to tell the truth of his life, and that seemed too cruel for either of them to bear. "Still," he continued, "makes me glad I wore a sheath. We won't have any bastards to worry about."

"Ah," said Athos, sitting upright. "I had not thought of that. Thank you." If he was going to continue to live as an omega, he really did need to pay heed to an omega's concerns, unwanted pregnancies and resultant hasty weddings being the top of the list. "Everything you've done for me has been remarkably kind, perhaps undeservedly so."

"Never that." Porthos turned and kissed Athos' forehead, then started to gather his clothes and dress.

The sun was already high, and it had to be three or four hours past dawn. They should both have reported to the Queen hours ago. She would doubtless understand. Aramis had likely told her what was going on, and couples were allowed time to lie in after an omega's heat.

Athos watched him dress in silence, glad for the reprieve as well as the kindness, and glad to get a last look at that gorgeous body before it covered up. "I'll follow you shortly," he said as Porthos adjusted his cloak in the mirror.

Nodding absently, Porthos gave the blue fabric a last tug, and turned to leave. As his hand touched the door, he said over his shoulder, "I meant what I said last night. I'll never leave you." Then he was gone.

Falling back onto the bed, Athos struck his head against the pillows with repeated violence. It didn't help.

He meant to rise and dress, following Porthos to the Queen's side, but didn't seem to have the will for it. What was the point, in any case? They'd caught the traitors, or the more threatening ones at least, and he doubted that Her Majesty had a sincere interest in writing a sister-in-law with whom she was not reputed to hold any kind of lasting bond. She might hold on to Athos out of obligation for services rendered, or, worse, because she felt sorry for him, but he was no longer needed at court.

Perhaps he should have acquiesced a few minutes before. He already loved Porthos as a friend and comrade, and certainly felt a strong and physical attraction as well. Marriages had been founded on worse. Athos would have to find a living of some kind to help support them, perhaps teaching. They could find a house together, and eventually Porthos would surrender to Athos' scent and stop wearing a sheath, and Athos would pop out a dozen or so children and... live in utter misery.

Athos groaned. He was better going to Antoine and marrying whoever he picked out. If he was going to be a wretch, better to take down someone he didn't care about than one of his only friends.

He would pack his things, he decided, pack and go the moment he could get the Queen to release his service. He supposed that officially Richelieu had employed him, but didn't feel an especial obligation to keep his word to the Cardinal, nor did he think Richelieu would care. Or, if he did, it would be to employ Athos on another errand, and this time it could be one of which Athos did not approve. No, it would be better for everyone if he was just gone.

He would say his goodbyes in person, this time, however. No more letters.

Resolved to action, Athos pushed himself off the bed and turned to the wardrobe, then stopped. It had struck him that everything in it, save his boots and illegal dagger, were gifts from the Queen, and wondered if he could justify leaving when he owed her even his hat.

He supposed, properly, he should write to Antoine, explain the situation somehow, and await collection. An unbound omega ought not to be wandering around France with no escort, whether he owned the clothes on his back or not. No, the entire impulse to leave was one implausibility piled on another, no matter its attraction.

Only once before had he felt such an urge to run, and then he'd had more options. A beta comte wishing to be a Musketeer could do as he liked. Now...

Sighing, he slumped back onto the bed and stared at the wardrobe as though his situation were its fault. Running his available choices over in his head did little good when in truth he liked each one less than the last, but he was still doing so some time later when he heard a knock on his door.

"Aramis," was the answer to his inquiry, and only then did he remember he wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. Athos hastily found yesterday's clothes crumbled where he'd tossed them, and scrambled into into shirt and trousers.

"Is something wrong?" Athos asked.

Aramis had opened his mouth but on seeing Athos' closed it and took a bow, flourishing his hat. "Her Majesty requests and requires your presence in her chambers." A pause. "At your convenience and in fitting attire." There was something else on his face, a question unspoken, but one he could guess at. Aramis was standing with the door half open in a kind of self-imposed chaperone. Athos jerked his head sharply, inviting him in and telling him to shut it with one motion.

"And you didn't send a page because?" he asked, not very patiently. He looked like hell, he knew; the room smelled like a brothel, and he felt too tired and drawn to deal with Aramis, or anyone else.

After another moment of assessment and hesitation, Aramis burst out, "I've never seen two people looking so miserable after a tryst they both agreed to. Are you hurt?"

"No," Athos told him flatly, wondering if it was an alpha's protective nature or the concern of a friend that led him to ask.

"Is Porthos hurt?"

Athos snorted instead of answering, though the answer could well be "yes," at least in terms of feelings or pride.

Aramis sighed and raked his hands back through his hair. He twisted half towards the door, as through leaving, then hissed out a breath and spun back, crossing to Athos in two strides. They stood half a pace apart, close enough to see that Aramis had chewed short the edge of his moustache, something he only did in times of great travail. "Porthos is–" he shook his head. "He's more than the world to me, you know that." Athos nodded. "But so are you, even now. If there's something wrong between you, I wouldn't take his side."

The pledge took Athos' breath away for a moment. The cruelty of it, unintentional as it was, was almost too much to bear. He felt as though Aramis were offing him everything back again, the way it was before: The Three Inseparables. Only it was a lie. Athos remembered the island on the river, and how Porthos and Aramis had leaned on each other and left him in the rain, rightly so after he'd betrayed them. He didn't blame them, but he knew the old bond was gone forever. In its place were the proprietorial inquiries of an alpha who wanted to make sure that an omega with whom he had quasi-familial ties was not being abused.

"Nothing is wrong," Athos told him. He considered what to say that would have enough truth to satisfy Aramis without alarming him. "You know how our friend feels about relations with my kind, especially when our time comes. I fear that doing me a service has disquieted him, but we have both suffered worse."

"I would that neither of you suffered anything." Aramis sounded unreasonably angry for the one person who hadn't been physically involved.

"I am grateful for your concern." Athos meant is sincerely, but realised as he spoke how cutting the words might sound, and hastily added, "I speak in earnest. If I had need of protection, I would trust you to provide it." In truth, he very likely might need an alpha to stand for him, but in a few days, a week at most, his friends would be journeying south and back to war, and no choice that lay before Athos included following them. He would not concern his friends in something about which they could do nothing.

Aramis seemed to read at least some of the words left unspoken, but nodded anyway and rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'll tell the Queen you'll be a few moments cleaning up," he said. "No hurry." That last with a smirk, and then he was gone.

After the door clicked shut behind him, Athos stripped and washed Porthos' scent from his body as best he could with a cloth and tepid water. When he redressed, he felt like a new man, though perhaps not one whose choices were clear.

* * *

By the time Athos arrived in the Queen's chambers, his friends were standing guard outside the doors, and Anne was sitting in the chapel, her head bowed. Porthos nodded to Athos as he passed, but they didn't say anything. Athos sighed. He had no idea how to mend what lay between them, or if indeed mending was required. He supposed absence would cure any lingering ills soon enough.

The Queen didn't acknowledge his entrance, so he stood by the door and gazed up at the gilded figure of Christ Crucified. Athos had often wondered how the Transmutation of Mankind was part of His plan, but neither true Church nor Protestant exegesis had made much sense of the issue. He'd long since given up praying, so he supposed that he never would find out, not unless it was the Devil's work after all.

There was something of the beauty of submission in the carving of the dying God above him: the pain, but also the acceptance and the perfect understanding. Some said that peace was the Lord's blessing unto omegas; _blessed are the meek,_ some said, and Athos hadn't understood that until the night before. It was all very well to read about the sanctity of union between alpha and omega, but something else to melt utterly into another's will, until fear and hope and identity drifted away as one, and all that was left was quiescence. It was what his mother had said prayer felt like, but he'd never before found in communion of any kind.

Porthos hated it. And, aside from the moments most profound, Athos wasn't sure he felt differently. He couldn't see himself in those acts. He'd resisted them for too long, along with so many others of God's gifts, and had fortified himself against them.

He hadn't realised that he'd sighed until the Queen turned to him and smiled kindly.

"How does the morning find you?" she asked.

"Afternoon, now, Your Majesty," Athos said, already tired of the question, "and very well. Thank you. And yourself?"

The fine lines around the Queen's eyes hinted at sadness but her expression didn't change. "I'm relieved," she said. "For now, at least, the danger has passed by. Thanks to you and your friends."

Athos bowed, but felt ill at ease in the face of her gratitude. "What will you do now?" he asked.

A half shrug. "I shall see what leverage may be gained from one's mother-in-law threatening one's life. I suppose I'll have a common enemy with the Cardinal and your captain. It should grant me some room to breath, and fewer spies around my neck."

She rose, and perhaps the wear of days and weeks of worry showed in some stiffness, but grace overcame it. She had spent her whole life learning to stand before the world's slings and arrows as though they mattered not, so that now, having put almost twenty six of those years behind her, she could wear her serenity like a cloak. Or a shield.

When she came to stand beside him, Athos dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He thought she might stroke his hair as she had before, but instead she rested a hand on his shoulder, steadying them both.

"And you, Monsieur le Musketeer? Will you stay at my side and uphold my honour against monsters and men?"

Athos shut his eyes and wished again for clarity. "I would that I could, Your Majesty," he said last.

"If you wish it, I'll order it to be so. Could I give you any boon this kingdom could provide, what would you have?"

He bit his lip and stayed silent. He didn't know what he wished, or rather he did, but also knew it to be impossible.

Everyone seemed to be reading his thoughts that morning, for next she told him, "If it were in my power, I would restore your commission in my husband's Musketeers."

Perhaps it was a lingering imbalance brought on by heat, or an omega's natural sentimentality, but her words drove Athos closer to tears than anything since the island. He blinked rapidly, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat, not letting him inhale. He had to cough before he could say, "That is in no one's power, Your Majesty, not even God's."

"Blasphemy?" she asked lightly. "In a place of prayer?"

He shook his head, still overcome.

"I would have you in my service," the Queen told him, and now her thumb slid along his collar, just grazing the skin of his neck. He lifted his chin, instinctively baring his throat under her touch, and she made a soft sound of distress. Her fingertips hovered over the cuts Guiffrey had opened across his face, not touching, but close enough for him to feel the warmth of her bare hands. "Will you allow me to protect you as well?"

It wasn't fair and didn't make sense. As much as he'd been able to deflect an armed Musketeer hours before, with the big alpha right on top of him; as much as he could and had cheerfully told Porthos and Aramis to go to hell when they were pushing too hard, and he had finally seen through Anne, who knew what he was and what she could make him do, Athos folded under this beta woman's lightest touch.

"As you will, Your Majesty," he murmured, then wondered to what he had committed. At least now the choice was gone: he would stay at court and do as his Queen bade him.

"Excellent," she said, and now she did ruffle his hair. "Come, I wish you to read to me at dinner." She glided out of the room, expecting him to follow, and he did, as if towed in her wake.

* * *

That evening found Athos back in the royal library, and so, eventually, did Porthos.

Athos turned and folded his arms. They had seen each other most of the day, but hadn't spoken, this more from lack of opportunity than from desire, though Athos could not say that he resented the reprieve.

"If you ask me how I feel, about anything, I will be forced to do something violent and illegal," he said by way of greeting, making Porthos grin.

"Narrows my options, that does."

Athos made a non-committal noise, and Porthos, still smiling leaned against the shelves, cocking his hip out and folding his arms in a mirror of Athos that looked far less guarded. Hell, he looked almost content. 

He was right, however, as Athos realised that he mostly did want to know how Porthos was doing, and what his plans were, and now mildly regretted banning the topic. "Are you on duty?" he asked instead.

Porthos shook his head. "Aramis. We're going to swap off so that one of us has got an eye on the Queen. I have dawn to dusk."

"Benefits of command," Athos noted, but he was glad that they were still being careful. Who knew what vipers still hid in the grass, and Athos himself could only be there so many hours of the day.

"Has to have some. Writing reports sure isn't what I signed up for." He froze, his expression fixed for a moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry."

Athos waved him off. "I'd rather you had the responsibility. You carry it better." He left the if-onlies out, and Porthos seemed to relax.

He straightened and reached over to take Athos' wrist. "May I spend the night with you?" He'd asked it softly, and his expression was sombre and hopeful. That morning's proposal and rejection had been forgotten, it seemed.

The relief brought by that kindness filled Athos like spring air. "Ah, the true reason for the duty assignments," he said, letting himself smile. "Yes. I would like that."

Porthos grinned again, looking as though he'd just recalled that it was his birthday, and leaned in to kiss Athos' cheek. "I'll be up in a little while then?"

"Certainly," Athos agreed, though he realised that he'd have to have another painful conversation with Aramis as to the state of courtly gossip. He couldn't imagine that the previous evening's yelling, fighting and general ruckus had gone unnoticed or uncommented upon, nor the frequent comings and goings of unbound alphas in his chambers, Musketeers or no.

At least, when he got back to his rooms, he found that someone had replaced the carpet and aired the room. What the combination of blood and sex was doing to his reputation, he hesitated to think. He vowed, again, to become more adept at managing such considerations. Though it did occur to him that sitting up in anticipation of a tryst with an alpha he'd refused to marry might be going some way to undermine that resolution.

He washed his face and hands, then tried to tease his hair into curls before catching himself in the mirror. He stared at his reflection for a moment, seeing his omega-self for the first time in days – he had avoided the glass that morning – and feeling the now-familiar jolt of repulsion. He frowned at his reflection, trying to see himself with the disinterest of a stranger.

After a moment's contemplation, he ran a hand through his hair, disarranging it. Even if he accepted himself as he was now, the frippery hardly accorded with the matched grazes across his cheeks, so obviously caused by a the tip of a rapier. He wondered if growing his beard back – defying the conventions of omega dress – would cover them or make them more obvious, and which was to be the more desired result.

He supposed that if he had the Queen's patronage, he need not follow convention as closely as some, but he also had no desire to shame Her Majesty or cause her further scandal. If he were giving his service to her, as so few were, he ought to do the thing properly.

"Do you think I should grow out my beard?" he asked Porthos when he slipped in a few moments later.

"I think you should kiss me."

As that seemed far more agreeable than discussing fashion, the Queen, or anything else, that's what Athos did.

When they fell into bed some time later – both too exhausted to do more than stroke each other into sleepy satisfaction – Athos manoeuvred himself into Porthos' embrace. The bed was too small to allow anything but lying partly on top of one another, so Athos wiggled until until he lay in circle of those strong arms.

He could feel a steady heartbeat against his back and even breath tickling the hair around his neck, and recalled that last morning on the island and how he'd thought never to have this again.

Porthos muttered something that Athos didn't quite catch, then refused to repeat it, even on threat of rolling them both out of bed. He kissed the side of Athos' neck instead, and promptly fell into sleep like a stone.

Athos faded some time after, wanting to stay awake to savour every moment of sharing a bed with his friend and companion, but eventually unable to resist the pull of exhaustion.

He woke before dawn, as was his custom, and felt Porthos already stirring beside him. Some time in the night, Athos had rolled on top of Porthos and now lay half sprawled across him, head resting on his chest, hand linked with Porthos' on the pillow.

Smiling to himself, he kissed the chest, then the hand, pulling it to him before freeing his own. Then he kissed Porthos' cheek, just at the point of his moustache, and finally his lips. Porthos murmured something, and blindly lifted his head in search of Athos, but found him already gone.

Athos kicked the bedclothes onto the floor and kissed Porthos' chest again, and then the side of his hip and the inside of his thigh, just above the knee. At that, Porthos rumbled approvingly and spread his legs, giving Athos room to palm his balls and take his half-hard cock into his mouth.

It felt utterly different from the last time he'd done this, though Porthos was no more an active partner than he had been then, still making Athos do all the work. This time, instead of an imperative to please that could not be denied, Athos felt subtly different compulsion. An immense fondness formed this one, and, it seemed, a trace of the old need and pull to submission. He let himself follow it, moving his tongue and lips in the ways he remembered Porthos instructing him and concentrating on the soft moans and gasps above him.

He focused on the sensation of Porthos' cock filling his mouth, of the warm thighs under his chest, and the soft skin under his touch. The man was spread out before him, pliant and absolutely vulnerable, and that knowledge only caused Athos to wish to give him greater pleasure. He could feel his own body heating and rising to arousal in response. It was not the pure and perfect clarity of an omega's heat, but had its own gratification.

He swallowed when Porthos spilled, sucking lightly until the tremors faded from his body. When Porthos pulled him back up to lie along side him, Athos let himself be manhandled, and purred against Porthos' neck as he stroked him to his own climax. It was so easy to let himself melt into that embrace.

The sun, however, had crept over the horizon, and they both had duties before them. Porthos protested when Athos pulled away and crossed to the washbasin. He was fully awake now, and grinned up at Athos as he returned, insolently folding his hands behind his head.

"Lazy sod," Athos said fondly, and couldn't resist kissing him before he wiped them both clean. "Aramis will be waiting for you to relieve him."

Despite muttering something like, "Let him," Porthos rolled out of bed and began to wash and dress.

Watching him, Athos remembered another duty, one he'd thus far been unable to bring himself to perform. He thought he could now, however, and knelt to pull the mattress apart. Porthos snorted as feathers stuck to both their skin, but his amusement faded as Athos stood, and he saw what he carried.

"I'll have no further use for these," Athos said, holding out his old leather doublet with the king's insignia buckled to its shoulder. "Please return them to Captain Treville, with my apologies."

It was the same nauseous look that Porthos had worn when he'd talked about taking Athos while he was in heat: skin greying, hand pressed to his mouth, lines around his eyes seeming to deepen without his eyes really narrowing. He shook his head, slowly side to side three times, and said, "Not for all of France."

Athos hadn't expected him to be with the angels in joy at the request, but nor had it seemed unreasonable. "I would do it myself," he said, trying to understand the objection, "save I can't be sure the Captain will return to Paris until the autumn, and I will not trust this to another letter." Remembering the response to his last missive to Treville, he added, "I expect the Captain will have calmed himself by the time you arrive. Somewhat."

Porthos didn't seem to be listening. "You're resigning?" he demanded. "You can't!" His pallid look had turned angry now and his hand balled into a fist, but Athos wasn't sure how they'd come back to this.

"I resigned weeks ago," he said, straining to keep his tone even. He wanted to raise his voice in kind, but there was no sense shouting the château down. Besides, he was still naked, and Porthos had just finished buckling on his weapons. "What did you suppose I wrote in that letter to the Captain? I would have given him these then, had the Cardinal not intervened."

"Athos, your uniform–" Porthos twisted as through to turn away, but didn't have the space to do it. Instead he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and relaxed his hand, then scrubbed it over his beard. When he sighed and touched Athos' elbow, a weary look had overcome him, and he seemed smaller. "I'm sorry. I know it's what you've decided. I know you don't think you have a choice. But what are you going to do?"

The last was almost a cry, and Athos stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his friend. He found himself almost crushed in the embrace that followed, leather doublet and steel buckles digging into his bare skin and Porthos' face pressed to his shoulder.

"I always figured we'd find a way out," Porthos muttered. "A better way than this."

Athos stroked his shoulders and squeezed the back of his neck. He had not expected to be the one doing the comforting. "I will serve the Queen as best I can, as an English teacher, a courtier, a bodyguard, or a spy. You shouldn't," he hesitated, not wanting to deliver the next blow, "You should no longer call me 'Athos.' I've left that name behind."

Both their bodies shook as Porthos growled. "Rubbish. I can't call you 'Olivier,' can I?"

"'Des Jardins,' if you like," Athos allowed, though that was the only name Olivier d'Athos de la Fère had created for himself. "It won't be the first time I've left a name behind." He let a smile creep into his voice, albeit one he didn't feel. "Did you know that I used to be a nobleman?"

"Ha. I never would've guessed." Porthos pushed him away, holding Athos by the shoulders, and studying his face, seeming to gauge his resolve. From the way his mouth turned down and his brows drew together, he didn't like what he saw. "Fine," he snapped. "Call yourself what you like. You'll always be 'Athos of the King's Musketeers' to me."

The man had the will of a mule, and Athos knew that he would find himself unlikely to change his mind once he'd set it to something. Besides which, Athos had to admit, even if just to himself, that it touched his heart to know that two people in the world still looked at him and saw the soldier. Athos bowed his head, "Thank you, my friend."

He then found himself yanked in and kissed soundly on each cheek as Porthos took his leave. It was only as the door closed that he'd realised that he hadn't managed to hand his uniform off after all.

Sighing, Athos stuffed it back in the mattress and did his best to return the feathers as well. He had handled that rather badly, he realised. He should have understood that his status was still a sensitive subject and waited the week or so until Porthos' orders came in, no matter how much Athos himself had wanted to get it over with.

If Porthos and Aramis had continued to hate him as he deserved, the break probably would be simpler. He had not, until this last week, realised how deeply grace could cut.

It had been easier the last time: he'd sealed up the house, put his lands in the hands of his estate manager, rode to Paris and changed his name when he got there, severing all ties with one blow. This time seemed more like trying to behead a man while wielding a dull axe: brutal, terrifying and taking far longer than it should.

Still, he had committed to this new life, and he hoped that Porthos would come around in his own time.

He didn't.

The following evening, again sharing Athos' too-narrow bed, Porthos propped himself on an elbow and asked, "What are you going to do when I'm gone?"

Athos sighed. This conversation they'd _definitely_ already had. "Serve the Queen," he replied patiently.

Porthos pulled a face. "No, I mean, when your time comes, what are you going to do without me?"

"Ah." Athos considered. His hand rested on Porthos' hip, and now he ran the pad of his thumb along the bone. "I understand that it is not difficult to find an alpha who is willing to assist in such matters. By making arrangements before the day," he added, seeing Porthos' appalled expression. It didn't seem to help.

"A stranger? What if he hurts you?"

"I would choose carefully."

"I don't like it." Twelve hours on duty – time apparently dedicated to mulling over the possibilities of Athos' future – had not made Porthos less obstinate.

Athos squeezed his hip. "If the Queen preserves me from a marriage I do not desire," which she seemed to be proposing by offering her protection, "then it is the best arrangement for which I can hope."

"You could..." Porthos started to say, then closed his mouth and frowned more darkly. He had apparently realised that making a camp follower of his lover would be to no one's advantage, not even his own.

"We do not wish that for each other," Athos told him.

"Better me than some rake."

Athos shook his head. He didn't think that was true, at least not for Porthos, but telling him would only make him more likely to sacrifice his happiness for his friend's sake. He leaned forward so that their chests pressed together and his lips came close enough to kiss along the line of Porthos' jaw. "Rest easy," he whispered into his ear. "I can take care of myself."

Porthos snorted, his breath puffing against Athos' neck, but let that topic drop as well, burring his hands in Athos' hair and pulling him back for a proper kiss.

They took pleasure in each other, and did not speak again of matters of consequence, not that night, nor for the duration of the week. By then, Porthos' reports had reached the company by post horse, and a post rider had returned.


	11. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. 1628.

Treville arrived without warning. He must have ridden hard the moment he got the first dispatches, out pacing the messengers. He'd barely taken time to wash the dust of the road from his face, and still wore stained riding leathers as he swept into the gardens, cloak swirling behind him, a worried-looking Aramis in his wake.

Athos froze where he sat at the Queen's feet, his soldier's instincts telling him to scramble to his feet and stand at attention, and the omega part of him urging him to keep his head down and out of the line of fire. The Queen's hand tightening in his hair pushed him towards the latter. He set down his book, and kept his eyes on the grass.

"Captain Treville," the Queen said evenly as he and Porthos bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty." A pause, and the boots approached the edge of Athos' vision, though Aramis must have stopped to stand next to Porthos at the edge of the garden. "Could we speak in private?"

"Of course, Captain." She raised her voice, to cover the handful of ladies and gentlemen in waiting, "If you would leave us."

Athos tried to push up, all too happy to depart, but the hand in his hair remained, holding him in place. He could _feel_ Treville's eyes on him, and knew that he was recognised, but was unable to flee. He knew his face was reddening with humiliation, and the only way to even breathe was to lean slightly against the Queen's skirts and keep his eyes fixed on the grass.

"Though," the Queen added mildly, "If I might keep a chaperone, given the nature of recent rumours." She phrased it without lifting her voice to make it a question, and Treville had no room to deny her.

"Of course, Your Majesty." At that, Athos heard even Porthos leave, his heavy tread distinctive – and seemingly reluctant, though that may well have been wishful thinking on Athos' part.

When Treville dropped to one knee in front of the Queen and started to apologise on behalf of the Musketeers, Athos focused on the smell of the garden and the satin under his cheek. The energy of a commanding alpha male – to whom Athos still felt he owed allegiance – offering utter submission to a beta woman felt as though it could have stripped his skin off. He could taste it in the air like black powder, and wondered if the Queen understood what she was doing to him. He thought so; it had the feel of a test. But of what?

Certainly of Treville, though the Queen said, as soon as she found a break, "I do not doubt your loyalty, Captain."

"I am grateful, Your Majesty," Treville said sincerely. He took that as a cue to stand and the Queen rose with him. Athos stayed where he was. "Any of my men still under Medici's influence will be found, and I will personally ensure that they understand the consequences of disloyalty."

"And treason." The Queen's voice had unexpected steel in it.

"And treason," Treville agreed grimly. "It will be done."

That seemed to settle the arrangement, and the Queen sat back on the bench. Her tone lightened when she asked, "How does my husband?"

Treville took a step back, and the Queen's hand left Athos' hair, patting the bench beside her instead. Grateful, Athos shifted to sit at the far end – all too aware that left Treville the only one standing – and listened to a summary of the campaign's progress. _Slow_ , _wet_ and _muddy_ seemed to be the most prominent descriptions, and Athos could read in _boring_ , _frustrating_ and _miserable_ as well. He expected that the King – for all that he was generally more content with camp life than he ever was in the Louvre – was by now on the verge of driving his staff to utter distraction.

Given the half smile with which the Queen attended the report, she was likely coming to the same conclusions. Queen Anne had never been an Éléonore d'Aquitaine, to ride bare-breasted on crusade, and weather and tedium were not among the least reasons why. That she had no duchy to follow her was another, though one less commonly mentioned by any party.

Tedious or not, Athos found that he was listening with neither distaste nor amusement, but with envy. He missed the comradeship found in shared grievances, and the way Aramis could liven up the dullest watches and Porthos could fight their way out of the resulting trouble. He missed the edge of danger that persisted even when he was almost, yet not completely, certain that nothing would happen that day, and the confidence that were something to go wrong he and his brothers would be first in the press and first to glory, and, when that time came, the song in his blood that could not be surpassed by drink or sex or anything else that he had yet known. From the time Athos had been old enough to hold a wooden sword, the path of his life had been bound to the knowledge that he could find a place in soldering. Until now.

Now, he could see the sin in it, the presumption that he better knew how to shape his life than the God who had made him an omega. Maybe God had seen at his bellicose youth and had employed the black sleep to turn him away from that path, and, when he had followed it regardless, dropped calamity after calamity upon him in an attempt to turn him back to what he was meant to be.

Porthos didn't seem to think so, but Anne certainly had, and Athos thought that the Queen might as well. Why else appoint herself his protector? Why else display her ownership of him to Treville?

Treville was winding down, and Athos could hear the fatigue in his voices. He was getting old to ride three score leagues in a handful of days, and the Queen was still making him stand.

At last, she took pity on her captain and released him, saying, "But forgive me, you must rest. Perhaps, if you are too weary for company you could take respite in your rooms, and join us at breakfast."

It wasn't phased as a request, but Treville nodded gratefully. Athos very much doubted that he would be doing any resting, not with a brace of traitors confined in the old château, and more _in potentia_.

"M. des Jardins can show you to your chambers," the Queen added in a tone that Athos could not decipher. It didn't _sound_ spiteful, but he found it difficult to contemplate what else could motivate such an extraordinary assignment.

Treville cleared his throat as if to demure, but there must have been an exchange of looks because all he said was, "Of course, Your Majesty." He even waited for Athos to proceed him, which allowed Athos to catch Porthos' eye on the way past his lurking-place in the topiary and make a face that hopefully indicated that all was well. Though that might not be an accurate assessment, he didn't know what his friends could do that wouldn't make it worse.

They didn't speak as Athos lead the way to the set of rooms above the barracks, quarters Treville had used so many times that he could doubtless find them while half-dead and blindfolded, and certainly without a guide. They entered, and Athos didn't flinch as Treville closed the door behind them.

For the time it took for Treville to shed his cloak and buff coat and push open a window for the breeze, neither of them said a word. Athos stood at parade rest beside the door, waiting. When the blow came, it cut deeper than he expected.

"You found a new patron remarkably quickly." Treville's voice was deceptively mild, but when he turned from the window their eyes met, and Athos could see the flame under the ice.

Athos didn't look away, but didn't answer back either.

"Who's your master now, eh?" Treville pressed, relentless. "The Queen? Or is it the Cardinal? Have you been Richelieu's creature from the start? His little omega spy in the Musketeers?"

Treville didn't have to move. All that power that he'd offered the Queen not half an hour ago, the will of an alpha used to commanding a company of ungovernable alphas, was directed squarely at Athos. The resonance in his tone promised that if Athos would just give in, that Treville would take care of everything, and if he did not... well there wasn't an _if he did not,_ because the anger promised that Treville would press until he got what he wanted, no matter what Athos agreed to do. The intensity made it difficult to breathe, and he found that he'd crumpled his hat in an attempt not to ball his hands into fists.

"No, sir," Athos told him, though he had to drop his gaze again. "I serve Queen Anne, not Cardinal Richelieu. I was loyal to you from the moment I joined your company, and so I remain."

"Spare me men with loyalty the colour of yours. Hell, I have two of them in a cell already."

Athos knew that he'd gone white, and wondered if the captain could tell that it was with anger more than fear. It was insupportable, but worse for being at least partly true. He respected Treville more than any soldier in the kingdom, and he had lied to him for three years. He had deliberately concealed something that, if discovered, could bring dishonour and even disgrace upon his whole company. He had apologised in the letter of explanation and resignation he'd written weeks ago, and was unsure if doing so again now would help or hinder Treville's temper, nor which would be for the best. He knew which he deserved.

In the face of Treville's predatory silence, Athos forced his head up and looked his former captain in the eye. "I apologise."

Treville's fist flew back, and Athos raised his chin in anticipation of the blow, but it never landed. Instead Treville spun away, again facing the window and its view of the barracks roofs. He braced his hands on the sill and his shoulders slumped.

"Dammit to Hell," he sighed, and the breath seemed to let some of the power out of the room. Athos could no longer feel the potential of a thunderhead looming above him. "If you had it to do again," Treville asked, still looking away, "would you still lie?"

"Yes, sir. I would." Athos didn't know where the words came from, but they were the more true for that. Perhaps he'd walked in shadow too long to find any hope of grace in a new path. "Though perhaps," he added, testing the borders of his convictions and his regrets, "perhaps not to Porthos and Aramis."

"Seduced them already, have you?" Treville asked nastily.

Athos flinched. He'd seen Treville enraged perhaps a dozen times over the years, and had that fury directed at him on a few occasions, but this felt different: darker and more bitter. "Could you be jealous, Captain?"

Treville's laugh held as much mirth as the crack of a whip. "Not of your conquests, Monsieur." Athos didn't press; he knew that Treville would either explain himself or he would not, and no word from him would tip it in either direction. In the end, no answer came. Instead, Treville said in a voice almost distant, "When I read that letter, I'd have strung you up for treason, if I could. For the sake of the company, I would've packed you off to whatever family have the misfortune of owning you. When the Cardinal intervened, I set a watch on you, and you schemed your way into their beds. Now, you're out of my power, and I only pray that you're more true to Her Majesty than you were to the Musketeers."

Any other man, and Athos would have called him out for saying half so much. Now, he would have had to find at least a beta to take up his cause, and he bore Treville too much love to fight him in any case. All he could do was try to shield Porthos and Aramis from as much of the stain of this disgrace as possible.

"I did not seduce anyone," Athos said. He tried to speak forcefully, with no subtle tone or persuasiveness that could lead Treville to think he was trying to employ and omega's influence over him. Nor could there be a profit in a complete denial: Treville could likely smell them out, and Athos wouldn't ask Porthos to lie. "Porthos and I are intimate, yes," he admitted, "but I have not used our relationship to influence his duties or his judgement, nor would he allow me to do so. He's the most honourable man in the company."

Treville bowed his head, bringing a hand up to press his eyes and seeming to support all his weight on the other. "A fortnight ago, I would have said that of you."

The words struck like a blade to the heart, worse for how many layers of untruth there was to them. Athos knew that he had the least claim to honour of any Musketeer, but that his captain had thought so highly of him and now wouldn't even look at him still cut to the quick. "I'm sorry, sir," he said simply.

"Not as much as you will be if the Queen comes to harm in your care." Now Treville straightened, but did not turn. "If you would leave me, M. des Jardins..."

He may have seen Athos bow his way out, for Athos could see a sliver of his face reflected in the windowpane. The impression Athos gained from it, probably imperfectly, was of profound regret.

* * *

Athos opened the door to his chamber and braced for another argument. He hadn't really expected Porthos to do as he was asked, and predicted that he'd come now, after he was released from his duties, to press the point. That he ought to keep his distance to save himself a taint of Athos' disgrace in Treville's eyes, did not seem to occur to him, and when Athos had tried to introduce the notion after his meeting with the captain, Porthos had simply rolled his eyes and shook his head. He'd taken being told not to bother visiting Athos that night slightly more seriously, but possibly only from ingrained chivalry, and the idea that if an omega said "No," an alpha ought to take it into account, not because he thought Athos in particular was making the least sense.

"Do not–" Athos started to say after the first knock, but when the door opened he was met with surprise. "Oh, it's you."

Aramis pressed his hat to his chest and bowed in a parody of humility. Then he stepped around Athos and into his room without as much as a "by your leave." Athos closed the door behind him.

"I've been sent to negotiate," Aramis announced, causing Athos to sigh and flop down on the bed.

"You should be talking to Captain Treville," Athos said from behind the arm he'd flung over his eyes, "trying to save Porthos' career, not his love life."

Shoving Athos' legs out of the way, Aramis settled on the end of the bed. "Ah, well, I've already done that, but a brother's work is never done." He picked up Athos' feet and dropped them in his lap, shoes and all, then patted them absently. "It won't make a difference, you know."

Athos didn't have to ask what he meant. "It might. I must try."

"All you're doing is making yourself look guilty and Porthos feel miserable, to say nothing of the inconvenience it's causing me."

"In the future, I'll be sure to take your amenity into account."

"It's certainly never too soon to start," Aramis said lightly, but then sighed. "Oh, Athos. What are we going to do with you?"

"You should call me 'des Jardins.'"

Aramis scoffed, and did not reply, so Athos dropped the arm from his eyes and folded it behind his head, gazing up to take in his friend. "There's nothing more to be done, save to attempt to stay close to the captain's good graces. Inside a week he'll ride south, and you with him."

"And you to remain at court?"

"For better than that, I should not hope."

"No," said Aramis. He was frowning at Athos' shoes, but also seeming to look through them into his own contemplation. "You never did hope for much, did you?

To that, Athos had no answer. Instead, he said, "You should go, or the captain really will think I've seduced the pair of you."

"All the more reason to let Porthos spend the night." Aramis frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Though Treville has him on night watch, so your permission wouldn't do him much good."

Athos' eyes narrowed. "Not negotiating then. So why are you here?"

"Just checking in," Aramis assured him with a shrug that was surely meant to be nonchalant, but turned out more like prevaricating. "We wanted to make sure you were all right."

Had they been listening at the door, Athos wondered, or simply assumed that Treville had tried to skin him? Would they, he further wondered, have been half as solicitous if they still thought him a beta? He tried to recall other occasions on which he had found himself in the captain's disfavour, as points of comparison, but mostly he remembered Porthos and Aramis having equal share in his misfortune. In fact, if his memory did not fail him, it had usually been their fault in the first place, with Athos largely including himself for the sake of fellowship.

He drew a breath to say something to that effect, but let it out unvoiced. What, after all, was the point of reminding either of them what was gone beyond recall?

"There have been so many sighs of late that I feel as though I've woken into one of those twelve-volume romances Cornet reads," Aramis said, forcing Athos to hit him with his pillow. "Mercy!" Aramis cried, falling back against the foot of the bed. "If you're going to assault a blameless emissary, I will find company that better appreciates me."

It was not meant as a serious threat, but Athos said gravely, "No such person exists."

Again the hat pressed to the chest and the little half bow, but this time in genuine acknowledgement. Then he patted Athos' ankle companionably, and slid to his feet. "In truth, I should go."

"Worried about your reputation?" Athos asked, rising to stand beside him.

"Indeed. If we keep meeting like this, I'll be branded a libertine."

"We wouldn't want that." Athos could not keep a trace of irony out of his smile. It was such a generous word word for a promiscuous alpha; they called omegas with similar habits something else entirely.

Aramis clapped a hand to Athos' shoulder. It began as a friendly gesture, one with which he'd taken his leave a thousand times in their days as Musketeers, but then it altered. Instead of a gruff pat followed by Aramis sauntering out of the room, the hand remained fixed, and some part of his expression altered, combining worry and anger with pathos. A moment later, Athos found himself pulled forward as Aramis wrapped him in fierce embrace.

Neither of them said a word, but Athos let his forehead rest on Aramis' shoulder and his arms circle the small of his back in return. He had not understood until this very moment how badly he'd needed reassurance from an alpha. He leaned further into Aramis and tried to absorb as much of the strength and protection as he could in the time that they had. He felt giddy, as though contemplating throwing himself from the spire of Notre Dame de Paris with absolute assurance of being caught and carried safe to the ground. He felt secure as he had waking wrapped in blankets and surrounded by friends, knowing that he was safe and alive. Kneeling at the Queen's feet had felt like this – or nearly so for no beta could have quite this power – as had surrendering to Anne.

Given a choice, Athos might never have let go, but after a few moments Aramis pulled away. He patted Athos' shoulder again and made to leave, but Athos caught his wrist, saying, "Take care." He meant, _Of yourself, of Porthos, of Treville,_ but didn't need to say it; Aramis nodded, settled his hat on his head, and was gone.

Left alone for the first night in almost a week, Athos changed for bed then curled on his side under the covers, attempting to hold onto the comfort of the embrace.

* * *

The passage of three days found Athos and the Queen in a sunlit study, working on a letter to her sister in law, Henriette Marie. For the most part, the Queen was describing in Spanish what she wanted to say, and Athos was attempting to show her how she might write it in English. That England's queen consort's grasp of the language was reputed to be little better than Queen Anne's was an account.

They had completed their sixth draft, which Athos considered rudimentary but perhaps as good as it was going to get, when the Queen said, of a sudden, "Captain Treville tells me that he intends to depart for Paris in the morning."

"Oh?" Athos asked cautiously. He'd seen very little of Treville since their interview, and next to nothing of any Musketeer not standing guard duty. They seemed to be spending the majority of their time in the old château, or, more specifically, its dungeons.

The Queen set the letter aside and began on a fair copy, her hand made elegant by years of lessons. "Indeed," she continued, only seeming to give the matter a fraction of her attention. "He claims to have got all he can from his prisoners, and will take them for trial." Or, more likely, a speedy execution, without the stamp of the courts. "I believe that M. Cornet will be arriving as relief, and that MM. Porthos and Aramis will travel with their captain."

The table before them seemed to float under deep water, and Athos felt a pressure in his chest as if trodden on by a draught horse. He had to curl his hands in so that his nails bit his palms to pull himself back to the moment, silently cursing himself all the while. He should have expected this. He _had_ expected this. Only, as many times as he'd imagined them riding off to battle and their lives as King's Musketeers, he hadn't seen as it taking place so soon. For all that his bed had been empty these past four nights, he had at least had the comfort of knowing that had he sought out Porthos' company, he would have found it. Now...

"I shall miss them," the Queen continued when he found himself unable to speak. "M. Cornet is a fine soldier, but one of very little humour."

That was an understatement to such a great extent that it worked a small smile out of Athos. "No, Your Majesty." Then he sighed, and said with forced cheer, "Summer can seem to pass quickly."

"Indeed it can," the Queen agreed, clearly humouring him, then asked, "Is 'hubbub' truly a word?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

* * *

Porthos came to him that night, and Athos pulled him into a kiss before the door had clicked shut. Left hand pulling Porthos' head down, Athos stripped belts, cloak and doublet with the other, not breaking the kiss and not letting go. He pulled away just long enough to get Porthos' shirt over his head, an effort with which he sincerely co-operated, then shoved him back against the door, kissing him savagely. Porthos made a surprised noise as he found the wind knocked out of him, but pulled Athos' shirt free so he could run his hands up his back. He opened his mouth to let himself be kissed, and spread his legs to allow Athos slide his thigh between them, then rolled his hips forward. He was already hard, and grew harder still when Athos palmed him through his trousers.

He laughed then, saying, "Aggressive tonight, are you?"

"Shut up!" Athos hissed and nipped the lobe of his ear, making Porthos gasp. "Do not say a single word."

"Fine," Porthos agreed, and swept his hands up to strip Athos of his shirt and doublet in one move, then tossed the clothes into the corner by the wardrobe, kicking his own after them. He shoved Athos back, aiming him for the bed, and advanced only when Athos had fallen. He loomed over the bed, face set in determination, and let his eyes flick down over Athos where he lay half naked and half propped on his elbows, looking up through his hair.

Athos imagined Porthos grasping him by the wrists as he had that first night, tying him down and taking him utterly. He imagined being stripped, used and filled, and he spread his legs and let his head fall back enough to show his throat. It was a clear invitation, an omega offering an alpha whatever he wanted, complete surrender made more potent by an earlier challenge.

It was ignored. Porthos fell to his knees in front of him and opened his trousers with enough force to send buttons skittering across the floor. Before he knew what was happening, Athos found himself swallowed to the root.

He cried out, some blasphemy passing his lips, let his head fall the rest of the way back. He'd never felt this before, and the sensations of warmth and pressure overwhelmed him. He wanted to move, to thrust into Porthos' mouth, and at the same time to stay utterly still, fixing the moment as though in amber. Then Porthos swallowed, and he cried again. When he tried to buck his hips, he found them held down, and trying to find Porthos' hair to press his head only got both wrists caught in one broad hand.

With no recourse but whispered curses and prayers, he was forced to ride each wave of pleasure as it came. Now Porthos moved: bobbing his head and humming, rolling his tongue and exposing a scrape of teeth.

Athos was begging, he realised, his words an unbroken string up supplications for Porthos to do he knew not what. What he did was to lift his head until only the tip of Athos' cock remained in his mouth, then sucked hard.

The room turned red, and Athos forgot how to breath as he emptied himself into Porthos' mouth. The grip on his wrists loosened, but he could not move or pull away. He lay limply, sprawled sideways across the bed, and listened to the sound of his own heart as it beat frantically like a rabbit's.

Porthos liked him clean before he stood, the sensation barely registering, then stretched and cracked his knuckles above his head. He looked extremely satisfied with himself, but Athos found his gaze fixed on the ripples of muscles, the way his scars pulled at his dark skin, and the strength underlying all of it. Porthos still had his trousers on, and his cock was hard and erect underneath.

"I want you," Athos informed him, his breath somewhat recovered, "to tie my hands and fuck me."

It was the wrong thing to say. Above him, Porthos went still, like a deer that's scented a hunter and stands trembling and ready to vanish into the thicket. "What?" he demanded, voice rough.

Athos sat up, gripping the edge of the bed and trying to decide which would be better: rolling over in surrender, or challenging like an alpha. "I should like to be restrained and penetrated," he reiterated, for sake of clarity, "But if you would find that distasteful, we could do something else."

"You're serious?" Porthos was glaring at him, as though he expected a trick. "And you're not going into heat or something?"

"You would know better than I, I assure you."

"But you're sure?"

Athos let his breath out in a huff. "Monsieur, if you persist in this line of questioning, you will find yourself sleeping alone."

That seemed to be good enough for Porthos, who shrugged and fished his headscarf out the pile of discarded clothes. Athos held out his wrists, insides pressed together and hands apart, and eventually found his wrists bound and fastened to the end of a belt that looped through the bed frame, though they'd had to take some time to find the right belt and a section of the bed that both could be reached and felt as though it would hold under duress. The whole process required a lot of clambering over each other, and had seemed much more compelling when neither of them was thinking straight.

However, as he lay now on his back, arms stretched above him, body spread out for Porthos' inspection, some of the passion returned. When Porthos knelt over him, a knee on either side of his hips, hands pressing his shoulders flat to the bed, and kissed him, all thought of inconvenience fled.

Porthos' lips just brushed his, a touch in a practice yard, before he was gone. Out of reach, as it proved when Athos lifted his head in an attempt to recapture the kiss. Porthos, the bastard, was grinning down at him when at last he sank back into the bed in surrender.

"We've got all night, haven't we?" Porthos said, and when Athos took a breath to reply Porthos kissed it out of him. "How about this time _you_ don't say anything, unless you want me to stop?"

It was like a gag, Athos thought, but one he himself could remove. He didn't know if he liked the idea, but Porthos had been very obliging thus far, so he nodded.

"Excellent." Porthos let him have the next kiss, lingering on his lower lip, and tracing he edges of his mouth with his tongue.

Athos didn't try to lean into the kiss, but accepted it as it came. Idly, he tested the knots around his wrists and found them fast. Porthos ignored this, and kissed a line down his throat, pausing at his clavicle just long enough to nip a small welt, then freezing when Athos sucked in sharply, and continued when he didn't make a further sound. Athos tried to think of himself as on parade, immobile as a statue, and it almost got him through Porthos' lips closing over his nipple and sucking hard. Then he had to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut to keep from crying out.

"Good boy," Porthos murmured, and Athos felt so warmed that if it didn't make his silence easier, it at least made it worthwhile. When he reached the centre of Athos' chest, Porthos stopped again, this time leaning forward to press his ear over Athos' heart. "I like this," he said, knowing Athos couldn't reply. "I can tell you're all worked up, the way it's beating. It's like listening to you beg earlier. Liked that too. I think I could have done anything to you, and you'd have let me, not because of what I am, but 'cause it was me. Felt good."

Even were he allowed them, Athos knew he had no words with which to reply to that kind of honest sentiment. He wished his hands free, so they could speak for him, in caress or entreaty, but all he had was silence. He lay and breathed in the weight of Porthos half sprawled on top of him, the scratch of his hair against Athos' chest, the hold on his wrists that had been Porthos' own grip not half an hour ago, and felt at ease.

He started when Porthos moved again, sliding down his body until he was kneeling at the foot of the bed with Athos' legs spread to either side of him. Athos couldn't see more than his head and shoulders without awkwardly craning his neck, so he watched Porthos' face his hands stroked down the insides of his thighs. He looked so serious, the thin lines between his brows speaking of care and concentration, while his moustache hid all but the least traces of his smile. All the while, his hands moved devilishly up Athos' thighs, fingers sliding back and forth in a gentle massage while his thumbs circled with deeper pressure. They moved from his knees to almost close enough to touch his slack cock and back again, and Athos spreading his legs or tilting his hips didn't seem to encourage more erotic contact. Though he had to admit that it did feel lovely after an afternoon riding with the Queen.

Athos let his eyes drift closed and sank into Porthos' touch. It had been so long since he'd felt hands meant to lift him and sooth his cares, and longer still since he'd allowed himself to lie open to that kind of intimacy without a small part of him tensing in anticipation of the blow that he knew would follow. Now, he let Porthos do as he would while he himself drifted.

His eyes snapped open when Porthos stroked the flat of his nails across his cock. Athos swore without thinking. Porthos stopped moving, and, when glared at, smiled innocently. Then he puffed his cheeks and exhaled. After his release, Athos's skin felt raw and exposed, and even a breath on his cock sent shivers through his body. He wanted to curl in on himself to escape the sensation, but he wanted Porthos to do it again even more. He had to let his silence be its own supplication.

"Good boy," Porthos murmured again as Athos relaxed back against the bed, and followed it with a lick up the inside of his thigh, ending with a nip to the crease. A sound, a bottle being unstoppered, a rustle of bedding as Porthos shifted his weight, and Athos felt two fingers sliding inside him. He wished he had something to bite so he wouldn't moan, or make little high-pitched whining sounds when Porthos pushed in and curled his fingers to press at that sensitive place inside him.

Athos thought that the only way he could breath would be through pleading. He wanted more than anything to say, _Yes, oh yes, please more pleasemorepleasemore_ , but he knew that if uttered a word Porthos would stop again and fix him with that damn smug little grin until he settled and gave himself over to what Porthos wanted.

"Do you want a gag?" Porthos asked. He still had his fingers inside Athos, and his other hand splayed across Athos' belly, broad and warm. "No, like this don't you? You like the test, want to see if you can hold out. You're always doing that to yourself: no weakness allowed."

He never felt free of weakness, but Porthos couldn't know that. He was right. It cost too much every time he'd let it show, so he refused. Only now Porthos was taking him apart. The touch inside him, coaxing new pleasure from a body he'd felt was already wrung dry, and the steady croon of his voice. When Porthos pulled his fingers free and shifted to hook his arms under Athos' legs, spreading them wide and pulling his hips up, Athos turned his face away. He'd have covered it with his arm if he could have, and tugged at the bonds, but they held fast.

"Easy," Porthos told him. "Easy." He entered Athos slowly but not teasingly, guiding their bodies together until their hips met.

A more violent test, and the bonds still held, though now the scarf dug into Athos' wrists. He closed his hands on the belt and squeezed until the leather bit his palms. The edge of pain held him steady as Porthos began to thrust into him, a steady pace at first, a march. He opened his eyes to watch Porthos' face, and found it still tight with careful control.

Athos wondered why the effort to contain himself; he had given himself to Porthos when he'd asked to be tied, and Porthos could take what he wanted, could have done anything to him, if only Athos were allowed to beg him for it.

He kept his silence, knowing his role, even through a haze of lust sated and beginning to quicken anew. Porthos seemed to notice this at the same moment and took up Athos' cock, holding it more than stroking it. His thumb lightly ran the length in time with his measured thrusts, but applied no pressure. At the same time, the change in grip made a change in the way Porthos entered him, and now Athos found that every stroke brushed past the sensitive place inside him.

The pain in Athos' hands could no longer ground him. He circled his legs around the small of Porthos' back, drawing him forward with his heels, and tried to pull them into an unbreakable contact.

"Mother of Mercy," he breathed, knowing even as he said it that Porthos would halt as he had before, that that in this too he'd failed to live up to his word. "Please. I'm sorry. Don't stop. I need–" his voice broke, unable to find words for what he needed, and sure it didn't matter now. "Please."

But Porthos leaned forward and kissed his mouth. It was a hard kiss, all teeth and possessiveness, and Porthos' massive body forced his legs back just a little too far and trapped his cock between them. Athos leaned into the pain as he did the kiss, and when Porthos promised, "I got you. Can't drive me off," Athos found himself able to breathe again.

He had to take time to steady himself, and smooth the edge of the sobs out, and as he let out the last deep breath as a sigh, he let go of the belt. His hands stung as much at the release as from the bite of leather.

"All right?" Porthos asked, and Athos nodded. "That's my good boy."

Were he free to do it, Athos would have returned every touch, kissed every bit of skin he could reach. Now he let Porthos open and use him. His control, like Athos', had begun to fray, and his focused turned to entering as deeply and rapidly as he could. He moved at double time now – a quick march, a steady heartbeat – and matched each stroke with a squeeze and slide up Athos' cock.

The pleasure overtook Athos, and he fell into it. This was what he wanted: he had the surrender of will, and the binding, and a man he loved claiming him. He had warm hands stroking his body, a deep voice telling him he was worthy, and a conflagration of lust burning through every part of him. He spilled again in almost painful release, and could not tell if he screamed or not.

Porthos took some time longer, and Athos lay quiescently, accepting him into his body, and thought vaguely that he would like to be able to reach Porthos for a kiss, and when Porthos stiffened and fell forward, burying his face against Athos' neck, he kissed his brow and then his curly hair, tasting salt.

They rested there for a time – Porthos getting an elbow under him to keep from crushing the breath out of Athos – and waited for their hearts to slow and their breath to return. At last, Porthos groaned wearily and pulled himself free, taking care to bring his sheath with him. Athos, accustomed to being the one to look after them, had to allow himself to be cleaned and petted for a while before Porthos set to picking at the knots around his wrists.

"Have to work on this," he muttered, finding that they'd pulled into a snarl. Athos, whose shoulders had started to cramp, opened his mouth to agree and then closed it. They wouldn't have time. Still, he let Porthos rub his wrists when he finally freed them, and bring each one up for a kiss, then rolled over to allow Porthos to fold him into an embrace.

Athos thought that Porthos had fallen asleep: his breathing had steadied out, and he wasn't shifting around to get comfortable, but suddenly he said, "I promised not to leave you."

The pain so stunned Athos that he took a moment to answer. "You have a duty to the King. The pledge was not yours go give."

"But I did."

Athos sighed. "Then I absolve you of it."

Porthos did not reply, but made a small, dissatisfied growl deep in his chest, like a bear disturbed in his winter sleep.

"The autumn is not as far off as it may seem tonight," Athos said, trying again, even though his assurances sounded as empty to him as they must to Porthos.

"It's not even summer."

"You, my friend, are a man unwilling to be appeased."

His hair ruffled as Porthos laughed against his shoulder. "Truth."

"I'll write."

"Go to sleep," was all Porthos would say in reply, and neither of them spoke again.

Athos did not sleep, however, but lay quietly to listen to Porthos' breathing and stare into the darkness. His mind felt oddly blank, and he couldn't tell if it was because of the sex or that he'd simply run out of things of which to think. He'd worried the same old patterns in his mind the whole day since he'd heard the news of Treville's departure – thoughts treading in circles and parade squares – until he was sick with care. Now he simply felt resigned. It was over, and he could do nothing save surrender on the best terms offered.

Thinking that, he rose some time before dawn, sliding out from under Porthos arm, and replacing himself with pillow. Porthos grumbled, but stilled when kissed on the brow and hushed with nonsense.

Athos washed, dressed and shaved, then tucked a bundle under his arm and quietly left his room. He would go to the library, he decided, and wait out their departure. He could not find it in himself to offer his farewells to Porthos and Aramis.

He had nothing left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... to be continued.
> 
> Probably one more AO3 section, but shorter updates posted to the kinkmeme first.


	12. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. 1628.

Athos burned about half a candle before the dawn broke enough that he could read unaided. He'd been muddling through Dante, trying to scrape the rust off of his Italian, but found the words chimaerical, shifting in form and meaning. He couldn't tell if it was due to his fatigue, his melancholy, or the slippery nature of the poetry. As the sun rose, he stood and put up the book and took up his bundle. He took the long route to the barracks – through the upper stories then dropping back via a servants' stair – hoping to avoid encountering Porthos on his own way home. 

He knew Treville would be up. He'd always risen with the sun, even when not on campaign, and indeed he answered Athos' gentle knock himself.

"Ah," he said, peering at Athos through the half-open doorway. "M. des Jardins."

"Yes, sir," Athos replied. "May I come in?"

Treville sighed and stepped back to make way. When the door was closed behind them both, he said, "You would do well to look to your reputation, Monsieur. Sleeping with Musketeers and meeting alone with alphas in the early hours." He should have sounded scolding, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. He had his shirt on and laced, but not his doublet or cloak, and the smudges of exhaustion under his eyes must have matched Athos' own. 

"I will not take enough of your time to arouse comment, Captain," Athos said. He wished that what he was about to do would lift Treville's cares, he would still do anything to shoulder his captain's burdens if he could. "I came only to return something that never should have been mine." He shook out the bundle under his arm, revealing his old Musketeers doublet with its fleur-de-lis on the pauldron, and held it out to Treville.

To Athos' surprise, Treville hesitated before taking it. He had not expected it snatched away, but he knew that Treville was eager to sever all ties between his fallen Musketeer and the company. Yet Treville looked at the familiar doublet, then studied Athos' face for a long time before he finally lifted it from Athos' grasp. Then he turned it in his hands until the scared and battered pauldron faced up. "I still wonder if you earned this," he said so softly that Athos wondered if he'd been intended to hear. "I've spent the last month remembering every time I gave you an opportunity, or rewarded you, sifting my memories for some impression of manipulation."

Athos bit his lip. If anything Treville had made what he thought was a beta overcome twice as much as any alpha, male or female, but he knew that saying as much would bring no reward.

"And then," Treville said, the sudden volume startling Athos, "I think of when you rode to save the king, almost at the cost of your life, of a thousand acts of bravery, and stupidity, chasing after your fellows, and here protecting the Her Majesty, again almost to your death, and I know that you did earn the right to wear this." His fingers had tightened around the pauldron, showing white at the knuckles, and Athos had to clench his own hands around the brim of his hat to keep himself from reaching for it. "I wish I could return it to you, Athos."

Treville had not used that name in his hearing since before the river, and hearing it now almost overcame Athos. He drew in a long breath through his nose and bowed slightly, the bow of a lieutenant to his captain, not a courtier to an officer. "I am honoured, Captain," Athos said, voice as cool and steady as a fine blade. "I always held your opinion more highly than any other. Yet," he hesitated, sure that Treville would rather he departed now, leaving this understanding intact, but he pressed on, "I have found honour here, too, in the court. It remains service to the King."

"Pleased to hear it," Treville said, perhaps too heartily. They both knew that no matter how well Athos adapted as M. des Jardins, Queen's tutor and silent bodyguard, that it wasn't what he desired. He would find honour and service, perhaps, but not fellowship, and never glory. Athos wondered again if the Loire had been pushed by God's hand, a punishment for stepping above the place he was born to.

Not knowing what else to say, Athos bowed again, more deeply this time, and took his leave. He'd thought that giving up the doublet would depress him, but his steps felt lighter. He'd cut his last tie to his old life, and he was yet again starting anew. Once the Musketeers rode back to war, he would carry no expectations or burdens from his past life, only potential service to the crown. As the Queen had said, she'd seen him in three faces now, and he'd served her in all of them.

His hopes for a clean break, were however, scuttled when he returned to his rooms and found Porthos gone, and in his place a note from the Queen requesting his presence at a farewell breakfast. He'd heard the night before that this was to take place, and had hoped to absent himself from it. He'd already farewelled everyone in private, and had no desire to do so again.

Sighing, he sent for the barber for a shave and to have his hair curled. As he refolded the lace of his cravat, Athos tried not to think of the days where getting dressed involved sticking his head in a bucket of water and finding his boots. This was his life now, and if he was to be a courtier, he must look the part. The barber had perfumed his hair, and he smelled of lavender and crisp linen. Fine things, he told himself.

At breakfast, Treville sat at the Queen's right, and Aramis and Porthos more towards the foot of the table–seated over standing guard in honour of the company–with Athos near to across from them, though far enough away to make talk inconvenient. He had not sat so formal a meal since his arrival, and it seemed the entirety of the Queen's too small court had been rousted for it, two hours after dawn or not.

"I hope you will carry my good wishes to His Majesty," the Queen was saying to Treville, her voice raised enough to carry to the whole table. "We eagerly await news of his victories."

Treville bowed his head and murmured something Athos didn't catch, and the Queen smiled graciously.

"Though of course," she continued for the benefit of the table, "It grieves me to lose your company, my dear Captain."

Even from the far end of the long table, Athos saw Treville take a sharp breath, and then stop himself from speaking until he cold say levelly, "Your Majesty, my men are..."

The Queen raised a hand, silencing him. "Perfectly capable of protecting me, and I have every faith in them, Captain, even if the King needs the bravest of you by his side." She looked directly at Athos when she said, that, and he ducked his head.

He didn't catch Treville's reply, doubtless an awkward platitude, and did his best to ignore Porthos' chuckle from across the table. Athos feared that he was not the only one who had caught the Queen's look, and wondered what she was meant by this. She had at least apparently changed the subject now, and was talking about the gardens at the Château.

"I saw a flower this morning that reminded me of my youth. It is rare in Spain, for it fears the sun, and needs always damp roots, but it was said that an elixir could be brewed from its petals, and if drunk in the dark of the moon, well!" She smiled, and the table as one glanced away. The all knew what humours such an elixir was meant to alter–the largely folkloric forced shift from one alignment to another: bloodroot for omega to beta, some sort of moonflower for the reverse, or so old wives said–but to say such things out loud bordered on vulgarity, or it might have, had any other person been speaking. "I will confess that many a mother has thought of such things in making a daughter's match, if one has a beta and not the perfect submission that is desirable in a lady, but of course it is only a simulacrum, and truly discerning eyes can pierce such illusions."

At that, Treville coughed and couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Athos, who blushed and kept his head down under all the attention. He could feel the gazes of all the alphas at the table, and wished that the Queen was not piling such attention on him. It was as though she were trying to pull this new life from under him, to expose all his secrets.

"And, of course the elixirs carry their own dangers, so in the end, few mothers will risk all to gain a more marriageable daughter. I believe some counselled my father to risk me, but he knew better than to risk a Daughter of Hapsburg on such a chance."

"Of course not, Your Majesty," Treville murmured. He'd forced himself to look away from Athos and was watching the Queen with narrowed eyes, as he would a stranger brandishing a pistol, trying to differentiate friend from foe.

The Queen continued lightly, telling an amusing story of no great weight. "I was relieved, of course. I served Spain then and now France, and would die for my kingdom, for my people. I have faced assassins and cruelty and many trials, and I hope done credit to God and King, save for in one thing, but an elixir made of a small blue flower that grows only in shady places fighters me." Had she had a fan, she would have hidden her smile behind it. She glanced down and then up through her lashes, girlish and flirtatious at the same time, and Athos knew that every heart that might be moved would have protected her just then. "Yet I am not a Musketeer," the Queen said, and Treville blanched and bit his lip to keep from speaking.

Athos would have fled, could he had moved, but his blood had chilled to freezing, and he felt fixed in place. She was going to expose him. She was going to tear down this new life before he'd even had a chance to build it. He would be publicly disgraced and sent away, and the worst of it was that Athos didn't even know why.

"I could not," the Queen said, a steely undertone rising in her voice, pulling attention to her and fixing it there, "march into musket fire surrounded by the screams of dying men and horses, mud over my boots and knowing that any second could bring my death, as the rest of our good Captain's company may yet do, or perhaps are doing as we linger over breakfast. I could not take put on husband's clothes and ride into the teeth of death in order to save the King's life, as a young Musketeer once did." She did it; she looked right at Athos again as she said that, and the rest of the table followed her gaze. "Or suffer an assassin's torture, at the price of my face." Athos felt the largely healed cuts on his cheeks sting as he flushed. The company at the table shifted uneasily, chairs creaking. "And likewise, I could not take a perilous elixir to force my body into another form, even temporarily, as that same Musketeer has done now to safeguard his Queen."

Across the table, Porthos choked, and Aramis pounded him on the back, but Athos heard and didn't see. He could not break his gaze from the Queen's. He could feel the focused attention of the entire room on him, including the alphas, but it was the Queen who held him. A small beta woman who held his life in her hand, and instead of crushing it as he had thought she would, as his sins likely deserved, he saw now that she was setting him free. He saw it before Treville, who still looked stricken, and before she said, "Rise up, Athos of the Musketeers. Cast aside your courtier's garb, take no more the perilous elixir that makes you what you are not, and ride with my King, as you were meant to."

So Athos stood, he had to. His Queen had commanded it.

His chair scraped across the floor, louder still for the dead silence that followed the Queen's revelation, but the sound of wood on tile broke something. Everyone started to talk to their neighbours, save Treville who was struggling to make his face a mask, and Aramis who was laughing, slightly hysterically, Athos thought, and the Queen, who sat silently, a small, satisfied smile on her face.

Someone asked Athos something, but he waved her off, feeling dizzy. The Queen's lady, the deaf one who mostly seemed to sew and say nothing, was telling her neighbour that she'd known all along, of course. That the disguise might fool foreign spies, but a lady, a true omega could see through such things.

He bowed slightly, the room spinning more as he moved, and said something about needing to go change. He didn't know what he would have done after that, had Porthos not pulled him into a sideways embrace and steered him from the room, Aramis following on his heels.

"Damn your eyes for not warning me," Porthos said as the door closed. "Here I was ready to give you up, go away without you."

"I..." Athos started, but his throat had closed, filled with tears of relief, and the presence of two alphas folding around him overwhelmed him past speaking. He let himself lean on Porthos while Aramis took both his hands.

Athos wanted to say that he was all right, that he could stand alone, as he always had, and if forced to, he could have, but in truth he wished he could lean on the strength of his friends forever.

"He didn't know, you idiot," Aramis said, sounding distant, though his forehead rested against Athos' now. "And I'd bet my best sword that Captain Treville didn't either."

"Right." Porthos started to steer them all toward the back of the château, guiding Athos by the shoulders and nudging Aramis forward in the process. "You need to sit down, away from prying eyes."

"And we need to avoid the captain," Aramis added. "He's not going to love being backed into a corner like that."

Athos said nothing, but found himself gaining balance as he went and soon stood on his own. He wondered if Treville would be angry with the Queen for publicly forcing Athos back into the company, or if that was just the excuse that he'd said he'd wanted that morning. Perhaps that had been the lie, a sop for Athos when Treville knew they'd but rarely see each other again, and now the captain would resent someone they all knew was an omega–no matter what this royal proclamation claimed–taking a place in the King's service.

Porthos had picked Athos' room over the barracks, a small space for the three of them, but private for now. They settled Athos on the edge of the bed while Aramis plopped down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and Porthos knelt on the floor.

"We'll have to outfit you again," Porthos said, ever practical. "Anyone have any money?"

Aramis snorted, an obvious negative, and Athos couldn't remember what the state of his finances had been before he left Paris. It seemed so long ago now. Probably abysmal, though he did have a spare sword. "I can't think," he said. He couldn't seem to picture the change in roads from a life as a courtly omega to being again a beta and a Musketeer.

Aramis was already up and going through his cupboard, discarding anything that was obviously the Queen's on loan. "Boots," he said. "And box, with a package of small brown plants? Do you smoke now, M. des Jardins?"

"Pardon?" Athos said, baffled, not truly paying attention, at least not until Aramis dropped a small pouch into his lap, and it was... "Good God," he whispered. It was full of bloodroot, the dried kind he'd used to take into the field. Entirely out of habit he slipped a piece into his mouth and started to chew, welcoming the bitterness and the memory of ten thousand days of this taste, of his mother, and his early army days, and the first ventures with the Musketeers. He felt more himself almost at once, though he knew it couldn't possibly have taken effect yet. "Where did you find this?" he asked Aramis, who was staring down at him and frowning.

"It was in the little strong box, next to your purse," he said, like that should have been obvious. "I had to pick the lock."

"I don't..." He didn't remember a strongbox, _or_ a purse. "It must be from the Queen."

She'd planned this rather more in advance than he'd thought.

"How much is in the purse?" Porthos asked, which led to a debate about the price of horses and how much they could afford to spend on a pistol.

Athos let it pass over him. Soon he would have to get up and face the world again, be a Musketeer, and even ride into battle, depending how the King's campaign against the Huguenots was progressing. He would have to shake off Porthos' warm hand on his knee, and find a way to slide back into his old life. Yet, things had changed, had they not? He knew know what it felt like to go into heat, to be taken so utterly that he forgot himself, yet he also knew a kinder lover's touch. One he had not felt since Anne, when he'd thought she loved him completely. He looked at Porthos, still on the floor, but grinning up at Aramis like he was going to get a smack pretty quick, and still heart-rendingly beautiful. He remembered a hundred kindnesses, and how when everything had been black, Porthos had sent him a letter telling that he wished that they could be together, and that Athos should take care. He didn't think he could let that go, even for the sake of his old life.

He'd meant to look away, but Porthos glanced at him, then at Aramis, then at the door, and without missing a beat, Aramis said that he'd go find Captain Treville and see if he was out for blood or not, and if Athos was to ride at once, as the rest had been before the Queen's revelation.

"You all right?" Porthos asked when he was gone.

Athos shook his head, more to clear it than in negation. He realised he was clutching the pouch of bloodroot, and made himself put it on the bed beside him. "I have yet to determine that," he said weakly. "And you?"

"Depends," Porthos said. "This what you want?"

"Of all things," Athos replied instantly. "I know that much." Damn destiny and damn himself, if that was what it took. He'd had this once, and he wouldn't let it go again.

Porthos looked at his hand where it still rested on Athos' knee and twitched as though to withdraw, though he did not. He was frowning, the edge of his moustache sucked into his mouth so he could chew it. "Listen," he said, and he tightened his grip, as if Athos could have focused on anything in France other than him. "Listen, if you want to go back to the way it was before, with us, I mean, I understand." 

"No!" Athos said, more sharply than he intended, and hastily clarified. "For your sake, I should give you up. A connection to me will do you no good, no matter what Her Majesty has said. Yet I cannot. Not if you'll still have me."

"Of course I will," Porthos said, voice choked. He took Athos' face in his hands and pulled him in for a kiss.

They were still kissing when Aramis returned, entering without knocking, and throwing something heavy that landed on the floor next to Porthos with a thud. It was Athos' doublet and pauldron, now folded neatly. "Messieurs, Captain Treville would have you know that he plans to ride within the hour. Whether you accompany him or not."

"Well then," Athos said, letting Porthos draw him to his feet, "we'd better get ready."

* * *

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented, and for everyone for waiting for so long.


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